Every Young or Old Man’s Dream

Time is relentless, a fleeting reflection on the surface of our memories—always shifting, always just out of reach. Every Young or Old Man’s Dream is a meditation on war, fate, and the echoes of the past that shape us. It is a story of blood and honor, of tragedy and laughter in the face of the inevitable. Through the eyes of a warrior who has seen too much and a dreamer who refuses to let go, this poem explores the weight of history and the unyielding spirit that drives us forward. Some battles are fought with steel, others with memory—but all leave their mark. – Greg

“Time is but a face on the water.”
I read that in a book somewhere.
I wish it was today—
the first time I’d read it.

To feel the weight of those words
unburdened by knowing,
to let them crash against me like the tide,
to believe, for a moment,
that time is anything but a blade.

But I have walked this battlefield before.
I have stood where the ground remembers,
where footprints linger longer than the men who made them,
where swords rust before bodies decay,
where echoes of war outlive the warriors themselves.

Dead Rabbits hang from a pole in the distance,
a warning to those who still dream.
Blood clings to my hands, drying like ink,
a script of sins I never meant to write.
A maiden sings in the mist,
her voice a prayer, a dirge, a prophecy.

The song tells of glory, of honor, of victory—
but most of all, it tells of tragedy.
A romance that will always end cold,
like the rose on a world war pilot’s dash,
or the image of valor in a dying man’s mind.

We’ve lived it all.
We’ve sought it all.
We’ve remembered it all.
And now—
we will die for it all.

“Is my breath worth it?”
The thought cascades through my mind,
a question that penetrates the absolutes of my truth.
And yet, I do not know.

What I know is the blood on my hands.
I know the words that should have been spoken.
I know the actions I should have taken.
I know the cautions that should have been considered.

But time will always be a face on the water.
And my oldest enemy—
will always be my reflection.

The wind shifts.
The rain begins.
A sky once red with fire and steel turns black.
It weeps for us, as it has before.
As it will again.

And I stand, listening to the rain, laughing.
For today has been a cruel joke.
A comedy of arrogance, a sonnet of blood.
A punchline told in steel and bone.

I embrace it all—
and still, I laugh.

For I am Danger—
The Kid and the Man,
the dreamer and the sword,
the poet and the soldier.

And I will always dream.

Even when the battlefield turns to dust,
even when the song fades to silence,
even when history buries our names
beneath the weight of forgotten wars.

I will dream.

Because some things—
are worth dreaming for.