No more, no more can I
Charge them with truths
They are only cascades of
Sandy vapours, lacerating this
Wanton world.
I am not made of bricks
Physical intertia is but a catalyst
While the throwing of my voice
And the bearing of my ideals,
Is but a dream.
But my dream is raped,
Bleached by the reality
of gaze-ridden brains.
Refusing to condensate
On my glass window panes.
And the mind slouches
In bottomless revelries.
What is it
This dream?
They ask, with eyes
So dreadfully empty
That I feel lost and
My heart drowns in sorrow.
What is it, my dream...?
It is but a pebble in a
Dirty ocean. It is but a wisp
Of wind, that lunges and leaps.
It is but a star that I hold ever-softly
Aloft. In the arms of my mind.
Eudaimonia! Eudaimonia is my dream!
And they withdraw, confused.
Or ask questions, trying my patience.
The minutes of my life will not be wasted;
In sane conversation, too plain and too uniform
To be productive.
I leave them.
