They sit beneath the pale, indifferent light,
A desk piled high with dreams half-wrought.
Each one a spark, a beacon burning bright,
Yet none carried to the end they sought.

Their mind a canvas, endless, vast, and deep,
Brimming with colors, shapes, and untold lore.
But visions fade while toil lulls to sleep,
The grind of days a lock on every door.

In cubicles of grey, they pass their prime,
Each tick of clocks a dirge, a mournful chime.
“When will it come,” they ask, “my rightful time?
When will my dreams be more than fleeting rhyme?”

The echoes answer not, their cries grow cold,
Ambitions lost to dust, the years unfold.
For dreaming builds a castle in the air,
But action lays the stones that place it there.

Take the first step, the path may twist and bend,
But every stride will bring you to the end.
Dreams are the seed, but effort makes them grow.
And only through the journey will you know.