For those who have dared to dream

This was written at the end of my studying days, but when I read it now it is pertinent to all manner of things where I have dared to dream yet feared the worst....

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The tension as it claws with its bile like leanings at the centre of your throat,
Grips your fevered brow and its rainbow of sweat,
Drives the demons of your mind into ever deeper despair,
Rages like a torrent down the mud slide of your dreams,
And builds like a religious convent without a home,
The trivialities of life upon which we depend blend into insignificance,
Dashed upon the storm clad rocks of potential ruin and disaster,
Of hoped for freedom, joy, and promises of the future,
The tension as it claws with its bile like leanings,
Digs deep at the blood cells in your heightened veins,
Drains the power of cohesive thought and common-sense,
Searches for its food on which to fester,
And sips greedily at the mucous of your brains desires,
Dares you to deny it, and enjoys the nonsensical humour of it all,
Looking in from the outside, the re-runs and potential errors which seem so manifest, pale,
No help in the world can release the prisoner of these darkened hours,
The tension and the fight, unequal and distraught,
Dampen the soiled canvas of your protective art,
Developing alternative images of unimagined, undared, success and broken idols,
Screams at the tautness of your violin string spine,
Plucks gladly at the withered plumage and briefcase eyes you hide behind,
Centres itself on a time in the future which never seems to near,
And watches you cry the mists of deep despair,
The tension built, strategically with such a grand facade,
Is smote and led defeated from the battlefield,
Released from the pressure cooker of its existence by the sharp needle prick of a balloon,
Destroyed in the blink of an Owls eye amidst its steely gaze,
The ecstasy of its demise, tempered very little by the challenges to come,
Dreams of butterflies, of summer days, of angels and hummingbirds,
Replace the bile like leanings at the centre of your throat,
Wash clean the fears, to lay unfounded in the stench of rotting waste,
The sun is warm, all’s well with the world,
And my tiny morsel of this life shall sample the toast to which it is surely due.

Racing