The Dream

In my dreams I am flying like an eagle, solo,

Over forests, lakes and snow capped mountains I glide,

Above a land of preternatural beauty,

Marred only by it's history and pride.

When my feet touch your soil I am standing on a mountain,

With just one defiant flower growing on it's peak,

A yellow tulip so perfect it looks artificial,

Its waxy hue and brilliant glow look almost superficial.

As I approach my heart begins to race,

Because I have to know if it's real or fake.

Yet when I finally touch it with tentative caress,

It feels as real as the icy kiss of every snow flake.

I am locked in a cycle, an eternal slave,

Like Tantalus standing in the lake,

I cannot reach the thing that I crave,

It is a dream from which I will never wake!