"We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams."
-Arthur O'Shaughnessy
A forest of fantasy,
the flickering light
like an old film projector, streams
through branches and
reveals the sea of mauve-blue flowers
wild, free, growing
up into the light;
always searching for that light.
Music is just a metaphor
for these flowers.
Bluebells ring out
and the sound
smothers me
in solace and
sadness for
we were once standing in the place where
the ocean waves crash down but
look,
look at us now.
The light that is streaming is one from a street lamp.
Gazing up at the towering ugly buildings I think about why I'm not somewhere
with you.
as you once told me, we are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams.
And now you are gone.
The music is as silent as stone
and the dreams quieter still.
