We wander through the midnight of life,
the days are us against the cold,
preparing for the arrival of an unkind winter,
striving for the impossible delicacies for which we hunger,
we love and hate and smile and sigh,
we lie, are lied to, can we destroy and still dream?
It's all too easy to get caught up in the beautiful dream,
a slumber long enough to lose track of life,
until, rudely awakened by reality's deep sigh,
we find ourselves older, taller, and cold,
alert with new disappointments and newer hunger,
time to gather what we have and ready ourselves for winter
No longer children of summer, now one with the ice and blue and winter,
finding ourselves new-born amnesiacs, solely a forgotten dream,
we crave and ache, yet nothing can satisfy such a hunger,
swearing to trade our souls for a slice of life,
take away those security blankets and our world seems so cold,
somehow bits of a grayscale past catch in our heads, for this we sigh
It can be a sick salve, hearing satisfaction in an enemy's sigh,
still, glimpses of tiny suns may melt the severity of our winter,
we grow into a personalized Dark Age, the years just as cold,
shedding more than naivety when we smother our own dream,
continue to insist there must be some elusive trick to life,
only adding to this unwelcome, insatiable hunger
Solve, buy, decieve, compensate, rationalize, nothing kills the hunger,
work toward impossibilities and sell-out for remains of any wistful sigh,
how did we disfigure such a tragedy from pristine life?
In vain we seek to escape the clutches of a self-made winter,
dwelling in a perverse state of childhood's dream,
we are ever-tolerant of once unbearable cold
It can no longer reach the skin, the once-dreaded cold,
we fight starvation, but do not cease to hunger,
now and again, we recall some vague innocent dream,
lost in patch-worked memories, we allow ourselves a sigh,
perhaps we buried all true innocence when we felt the chill of winter,
it must have been in some previous life
With the fading of childhood's dream, shall we turn to something cynical and cold?
Is it far better to disrupt life and awaken a new, cruel hunger?
Is it far better to contentedly sigh and live in ignorance of the wrath of winter?
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