The Dreamer

To dream, to believe that in all the world
Not a single soul has fallen,
Could it be?
Would the Earth allow such a serene existence
To continue unbounded and unchained?
It could not be.
It could not be.
For all around me is death, despair, melancholy.
The sins of a million flow and peak and wisp around my very essence,
Clouding all that used to be holy and sacrosanct.
Is there no truth in the world, no saving grace
To rectify the pile of ashes before me?
Doubt, purely indictable and predictable.
Doubting the world, the hands of humanity themselves.
There is no way that we could exist truly in harmony.
It is all lies.
The polar opposite of truth.
Vengeful hate and spite for all that plague this universe!
There is no escape!
But what if a white dove could fly again?
What if – what if?
What if the world was not forsaken,
If… If… I had just been mistaken?
Because, after all,
The dreamer makes his own truth,
And my dreams are that of pleasant summer days
That never end.