He swears there’s a ladder that climbs toward a rune,
Its rungs disappear somewhere behind the moon.
Each night he rehearses the steps in his mind,
Escaping this maze where wildness is confined.

He sketches new worlds with a dull piece of chalk,
Where rivers sing softly and stones learn to talk.
A palace of clouds where the lonely are kings,
And laughter weighs lighter than all other things.

The grown-ups all tell him he’s foolish, a loon—
“There’s nothing that waits in the dark of the moon.”
But still he keeps dreaming, as dreamers must do:
That the veil of the night might whisper what’s true.

For here in the daylight, the bills never cease,
His roof bears burdens that bleed for lost peace.
Yet up in the stillness beyond waning skies,
He seeks out a hollow where no sorrow lies.

He wonders if clocks there are broken at noon
If sculptures of starlight at midnight are hewn,
If poets trade silence for verses unsung,
And kings wear their crowns made of grief, thread, and tongue.

He whispers a vow as he closes his eyes,
To follow that ladder through portals of surprise.
Though answers may vanish where wild spirits roam,
He’d rather chase wonder than call sorrow home.