The grief does not become less over time:
A man's dreams die just as hard at sixty
as they do at twenty.
More poignantly perhaps,
as dreams come fewer and farther out
the longer we go.
But it is always still the same:
when crushing moment of reality
The bright light of reality's day
reveals the paste and crystal
such dreams were made of.
One recovers - one always recovers:
bitterly laughing as tiny bits of hope
are used to re-sew the soul.
And then, like Don Quixote and his lance,
charge up the next hill
ere the grief is completely done.