In memory of what we were.

The world continues, the sun shines, the rain falls,
Cars drive past, but inside all is grey, and the colour
Is imaginary, a meeting that never happens, an
Encounter on a train, a dream, a longing that cannot
Be fulfilled. In dreams there is perfection, faults
Vanish like snow in June, smiles abound,
And no-one cries with the pain of rejection.
Why cannot life be a dream?
Why do the small things take on a life
And meaning alien to their intent, why
Do we dream instead of living a reality
That is humdrum and grey? Why, that is why,
Of course we dream, but sometimes the dream
Becomes like reality, and then we drift and
Float and are no longer there. We want
To be who we are not, and what we are not.
I am not what I am, but I wish I was what I am not.

© 2ndwitch, 08/09/14