You may forget the origins of today but it's forever.
Tomorrow is inconsequential
Nothing more than seeds that refuse to grow
Tomorrow lives in the never-quite-close-enough domain
of the realm of the never-understood
With unseen complications tomorrow remains our dream
Water still slips between my toes.
The rain may stop floundering in the air when the sun shines its beacon of devastation tomorrow
It matters not if tomorrow is never really there
Life is just the one moment
A temporary existence made from wishful thinking.
Yesterday too is gone, lost to us
Our own imaginative conquest.
It's the shadow in the sunlight, stubbornly refusing to leave the back of my mind.
Thunder echoes not in the sky, but there in the corners of my dusty thoughts
Lightning only the beginning, and it's already gone
The roars of some unknown dimension wearing away at my weary ears.
Perhaps we just need to reassert our authority on the restrictions of reality and imagined fairytale places, so many based on misguided fact, but fall as fiction.
This world is fiction.
You can't make today into something that it's not.
We are not the alchemists of the world; we are scientists of a different discipline,
and dimension.
We are lost in the woes of yesterday's dreams, still refusing to come to fruition.
Too many faces fight for freedom, for one second of drawn breath.
They're splayed with crimson water, gently slurring down the valleys,
which too lie in the wastes of our forgotten dreamscape.
This is the world of today.
It refuses to leave us, and yesterday could not linger longer.
Fight today for a tomorrow we will never see,
a playground of fools and thieves who are stealing precious moments of borrowed time.
The dream is dead.
The trees breathe only for themselves.
We are alone, the solitary unbelievers of an age so cynical and sceptic,
so subject to classification of relevance and practicality.
Death holds a gun to my head
With a shimmer of the northern lights within the eyes.
The knowledge that all is known
It's a dark shadow in its mind, and so soon in mine.
It calls for us, our naïve souls, and so we fall.
I am irrelevant; I exist only in the thoughts of that that may yet claim me
Thinking of me, all only here until the realisation of just how bad an idea I truly am and so I'll cease to exist.
