To question if reality is a dream would make one a great philosopher, to ponder if dreams could become reality would make one a fool, believe that one's dreams have become reality and all think one mad. What if my dream were that she came to this existence from the next, whilst never touching the floor, and my clouds would be dead and void of light forevermore. Would she not come? Is that not where love comes from? Let the other side decide my fate in this world as I do in theirs, and maybe my pain would fade, me, without cares. The colors fuse into a brilliant white light and I lay back, letting it take me without a fight. I don't cry, the sun sins somewhere nigh. Torment terminated, trifles forgotten, my eyes close and I forget all that is rotten. Killer instincts soothed and tame, never chasing fortune nor fame, my cries were never for help, I'm no intellectual whelp, I am that which soars far above, too high for notice, too high for love. Crazed illusions don on me, I've come to recognize them as hope, more logical illusions-despair-with which I cope. I can see that life is but imaginary made real, two minute meals and picture box reels, and feels like heels on my peel, for I've shed and I've healed. I can live on this make believe world made by man, or I can live as I can, blessed or damned by she who ran. I know she's come, one with one and come to be done. An image that radiates no emotion, for true love is silent and kept out of notion, the whole day that leaves on its own is too stubborn to stay, and this day will die, come what may. Wait wait! Memories, don't fade, never laid to rest, nor vanished into the shade. Stay stay, don't go away. Time is time, and as thought up as it may be, it's the only real thing not made by hand, for all may change, all but the slow, fast sand.