No gossemer dream is

too rickety,

too fragile,

too frayed,

to shreded-a-spider-web

wafting in a wind-going-down.

Until it comes true.

Only then,

when it becomes a thing we can clutch,

as we can grasp the twig

tossed in the tempest

just before we go under

for the last time

does that dream

become a frustration,

a longing-best-forgotten.

Hold your dreams far off,

suspended in the mists,

just shy-

of attainment,

of those last, bloody steps

on the bolder blocked road

to impossible fruition.

Sleep on it a long, long while!

A dream is better that way

and still gossemer.