Stuff that dreams are made of!

A small village..
A truant I play on the stage of life.
As the sea roars like a hungry lion from behind,
I can't hear what my mother screams to tell me.

I walk past every known face..every known house..every known lane..
To enter a strait dark and dingy
Yes! thats the lane i call my "alter ego".
Where a million words..a trillion thoughts play hide and seek with each other...
And then hold hands and run together like little children set free.

I sit in a corner basking in the last rays of the setting sun,
Straining my eyes to see beyond the horizon:
As if the thoughts are tiptoeing the footsteps of a Pied Piper I cannot see...
As if its time I let them go.

Strange are the stuff that dreams are made of...
Strange the truth that freedom is but a colour I can only use on canvas!