He

Alone atop a hill sat a wish. A dream. 
His hair flowing casually in the breeze, 
like it was dancing. A tango of truth. 
He gazed wistfully into the distance, 
his blank expression telling a story. 
A tale of woe. Of battles lost and won. 
Of love and loss. Of a dead heart. 

The sun rose in the distance.
Hugging the horizon and reflected
in the ocean, like a sea of gold. 
He watched. But it did not stir him.
For warmth was a pain to him. 
He had no regard for himself. 
He was a wish for others. 
He was their dream. Their desire. 

He was a body without form. 
A deserving unworthiness. 
An ego with self disregard. 
He was but a dream. 
Fearing the awakening.