While I do not know the reasons why,
. Dreams do not but live to die.
In my mind they wonder,
. As perfect as a gem.
But as they bring themselves to bear,
. All their flaws set in.
Of dirt or flesh, of cloth or stone,
. They soon begin to fester, rust or crack.
The twisted reality of existence thrusts its self upon them,
. And in my failings I still all but wonder why
Dreams do not but live to die.
Edited by Vanished, 18 September 2012 - 11:27 PM.