An outrageous dream
that can only be seen
by mortal sights.
A horrid thought
that shouldn't’t be sought
by mortal doubts.
Doubts for the oblivious
and unobservant.
Dreams for the scarce
and genius.
Silent thought from sour sorts
of sour dealers of sour courts.
To judge the judgmental.
To steal ones soul, a sour soul.
It’s a dreadful memory.
A violent violin melody that pulled the weapons trigger and blew her mind into a chorus.
A chorus of dreams of thoughts that wouldn’t be remembered, or listened.
For she was burned and conceived by a liar.
“Oh but listen,” she would wail. But no she would never be heard.
Her mind to wild. Locked up in her soul, never.
She’s told she is loved but her dreams are locked up to die.
To die, to die those dreary dreams.
Called wicked by a gloomy priest,
who questioned his own beliefs. He too was burned. Burned for believing her.
Its contagious that so called frightful dream.
The dream of creation, the question of life.
Its contagious, so don’t believe, completely ignore, because you’ll be burned.
Your ideals will be left to die, left to die alone, and ignored.
“It’s the best-“ the priest claimed;
and pulled the noose around its neck and said “for tonight and every night after,”
and so she lived, he lived, they lived, but that horrible thought died
and only was thought for a moment or two.
For its an outrageous dream
that can only be seen
by mortal sights.