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how will history see me
how will i be remembered

i could be a hero
i could be the pilgrim
the adventurer
the one who, despite fear
when at the top of the pile
when every thing was secure
and all my talents safely buried
risked it all
and won
and was the biggest winner of all
not because of personal gain
but because all those around me
who were trapped in the shallows
found their course changed
and were projected well beyond where they would be
if i had played it safe
and themselves became risk-takers
and went on to change their world

my heart is hot
my actions are luke-warm
to avoid becoming a half-digested carrot
i pray that my heart rules the day

in the old days
in showing who i was
i sang that happy refrain
"perhaps i'm a dreamer, we're two of kind"
now i see my mistake
i projected what i was
on one who wasn't
i was the only dreamer
i am the only dreamer
no imagination, no vision
this is what led to death

i was not the one who severed the ties
when life's blood was draining out
i refused to let the patient die
sometimes i pumped the chest, desperate for breath to return
others i kept a late-night vigil, silently, alone, in tears
yet in the end my efforts were not enough
for the patient had elected death
and resolve filled the gap left by vision

that they are severed is unavoidable
it might enter my mind then
(being a dreamer, and untiringly hopeful)
that i may now again dream unencumbered
that there are no fences

but as i wrote many years past
seems to hold true still
there is still a gun to my head
and a cold, fearful voice screeching
"This is your life,
don't flinch, I dare you to move!"

There are two kinds of captives;
those that attempt escape early in their captivity
yet as day turns into week, and month turns into year
they simply give up, and wonder if they were ever free.

Then there are the kind who never give up;
with each attempt at escape
the beatings by their captor are more severe,
yet with each attempt they get closer to freedom,
and they are resolved to die trying,
for death is better than captivity.

i'm beginning to see their are no bullets in the gun
i dare you to dare me to move one more time
i refuse to allow a spirit of poverty
a tight grip on a mound of mud and straw
to continue to suck the life from my imagination
be forewarned

© 2006 (5 may) john r. chase

...thank you, G.K. you've restored my faith in my wild eyes, and my restless heart...