When Wishes Turn to Dreams

I was going through, my box of old stuff
When I saw, this little string-bound book.
I unraveled the ribbon that grasped its thoughts,
And brought it to the light of this world.

I read through the pages, each a coarse mâché;
Paper crackled with every turn of my dreams,
Diligently inscribed into the parchment,
Of which each I called a wish.

Yes, a wish book
A book with which my wishes could be granted,
And put into being,
Under the harsh glare of reality.

Ink of desire stains fragile intent,
Of a life I wish I had.
As pen scratch to life, what I always pretend,
I can only hop, and ponder, silently protest.

Hark, there hast been a day!
To which I could proudly say,
That each page had materialized,
Into a form I can grasp.

For that day has yet to come,
For I am waiting still,
Silently I pray,
By my white-washed windowsill.

For until that day, in it itself redeems,
In whichever form, to where I can exist;
I can safely say, with pure conviction,
That my wishes,
Are nothing but dreams.