My hair traps little bits of sunlight,
Like catching fireflies in a jar.
The silken light flies through my eyelashes,
In indiscernible patterns.
A chilly breeze
With a thousand scents lifts my fingers.
A thousand scents: of wilderness and overgrown grass,
Of the late summer rain-drenched earth and damp roses,
Of a cluttered city and an ending day.
There are no clocks here.
Over here,
Todays don’t choke under the
Stifling hear of the burning match they hold,
To light Tomorrow’s funeral pyre.
Because Tomorrow’s never die.
They cannot, because Today lasts forever.
At least for Now.
And those Fear-inducing things
Don’t turn into a façade of dreams.
(Those dreams which aren’t dreams,
But come across as dreams,
Under a pall of neon lights,
Under a pall of what we are told
We must be and become
And finally what we come to believe
We must be and become)
All that resides here is the
Untouched Dream,
Without ripples left by the fingers of Everything Else.
The Dream born in the eyes of a child,
When everything was bigger and brighter.
The Dream born somewhere between
Flying sunshine and breezes with a thousand scents.
That lives in seashells, in the windows of dollhouses,
In the tiny flowers between crumbling bricks,
And in the river-coloured velvet moss carpeting grey stones.
The Dream that won’t last forever.
That can’t last forever.
But in this Now, it does.
In this Now, it lasts.
In this Now it goes on and on.
And on. Forever.
Ephemeral. Unending.
