A poem about unfulfilled dreams. . . .
Our daily joys make life complete,
But quested joys oft’ seem more sweet.
Not only pilots lust the sky,
But groundlings who will never fly.
The healthy take each day for granted;
Dying souls count each day blessed.
Gluttons scorn their daily bread;
The starving count one dry crust good.
Wives live bored in nuptial bliss;
But single souls seek just one kiss.
The wealthy may discount their gold;
The poor give thanks one coin to hold.
‘Tis not the young rejoice the dawn,
But crones whose lives are almost gone.
Our fulfilled dreams we soon ignore,
But unfulfilled, we quest them more.
God—help us seize each passing hour,
See miracle in tiny flower.
Teach me to treasure all my days,
And fill my heart with thankful praise.
James P. Hurd