The T-Shirt

We dreamed in kaleidoscope colors once
painted memorable vocations in pastel oils
tiptoed through delicious, sacred gardens of hope
flew haphazardly on a wing and a prayer and always
seemed to land on our feet.
We succeeded, achieved, believed
in variegated dreams.

Then I spotted the t-shirt on the back of a young man
written in bold, white letters across his back:
“Dreams aren’t what they used to be”

I cried

knowing deep inside
a young man’s dreams had died.

I cried – not for me -
for him and for every young person.

I cried for our children.
I cried for our children’s children.

Who crucified our dreams?

Who stole hope from the next generation?

Who buried the rainbow in the sand?

Who stole success from the believing young man?

Kaleidoscope colors fade away with dreams
signed, sealed and delivered in black ink.