I still remember it.
Do you?
I see my younger self, I sit,
with it, that book, you read it too.
That book that dealt our hope,
our thirst for more.
When our lives felt like a rope,
so tight, our necks were sore.
That story seemed more real than life could ever be,
inside that wardrobe, rabbithole, or right before everyone's eyes.
Just in disguise, hence none but us could ever see,
what's hidden underneath the lies.
Where is it now? Those pages, what became of them?
Did those savior worlds escape our grasp?
I know my hands are empty. The shelf that once was my optimism's stem,
now collects dust. Not even dreams stand firm against time's rasp.
Today, we look in awe, back at those times,
when we could wander through the lines.
Today we hustle, through our day, find comfort nay,
delirium in shallow puns, and tiredly stream our sorrows momentarily away.
So is it dead?
I ask you,
are we set?
Are our minds due?
Or is there spark to what was fire?
Do even in this perished place we dare to wonder?
Do even just from time to time, our' thoughts still ponder?
That longing cry for more, that striving curious and evernew desire?
I want to dream.
Again.
