In the Garden of Waking Dreams

In the garden of icy shadows,
we are haunted by spirits of chilled dementia.

Frigid crystal shards become a blanket
upon each fragile form of life.

A young hand's milky fingertips
cling desperately to the wisps of a fading memory.

Though a mere illusion of the past,
images design a misty time to come.

The smallest of teardrops form and fall,
only to crystallize and be camouflaged by the frost below.

There seems no escape from the mental slavery,
no haven from the pressing bitter cold.

Cannot some tiny flame
outlive the gusts that threaten to extinguish?

Is there no light that can
outlast the dusk's oppression?

An ominous voice once told me to drag myself out of the ghetto,
but where is the promise of hope to guide my way?

In the sprinkle of a citrus sunrise,
you look across the horizon for answers buried within yourself.

What might be found
if we could take a ride on a shooting star?

Sweeping past a galaxy's worth of darkness,
with only enough candlelight to push fear from world's unknown.

Would we find our garden,
haunted only by lilacs, bluebells, and rosey neighbours?

Would I find the salty sea air
and go wherever writhing rapids may take me?

There may be nirvana on the coral reef,
but there is only a pot of rusty pennies at the end of our rainbow.

In a disillusioned fantasy,
you can only change so much.

Left to sit upon the sidelines
while each glimmer of peace goes rushing by.

Every wish we make is a prayer to ourselves,
but what if we ourselves are not listening?

Then we can wish as hard as we like,
for shooting stars and roses without thorns,
but life is not a rose garden.

This is life.