Monday, 18 July 2016

Dead Dream Bubbles

On somedays, I am a four year old, blowing
countless bubbles of moments trapped in eternity 
Peering into colourful kaleidoscopes of the entire human history 
I see that I am more ancient than earth
Ruined rubbles of memory littering all spaces
Between concern and reality, truth and perception 
What magical spheres are these bubbles?
Here, children crushed by trucks speak through their purple plastic dolls
of indestructible loss and pain 
And adults believe that truth is all white on a black background
Here, killing your sister returns honor 
And walking in shrouds is modesty
Because yesterday, we had algebra and astronomy
And tomorrow we shall have heaven and its peace,
Today is just another day to blow
Bubbles of yet another score of dead dreams




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