What Dreams Are Made Of

Once more, for English class. My first attempt at a Petrarchan sonnet.

A simple thought turned into wanderlust,
The labyrinth of dreams turned cruel and twisted.
Eyes glazed like a mirror- slightly misted.
An old life left behind, covered in dust.
That hollow chest makes you seem like a toy.
The constant tin soldier who melted down
Still gave his heart to the girl in a gown-
Yet your sickly heart has never felt joy.
Always wanting for more places and things
Never would you stop for a loving hand-
Your gaze only halts at the crop of the cream.
I hope you one day find the will to sing,
May not one single day ever feel bland.
May you shake the dust whenever you dream.