Imagination is a utopia,
Crafted in the minds of dreamers,
Tailored to their specific tastes
And filling in the cracks each quirk leaves
In their ever-moving minds.

I’ve never seen another’s
But I can feel them.
Always happy, diseases gone,
Love abundant and sorrow forgotten.

Unrealistic, I think.

My lonely little sphere is molded
After the earth long before
The taint of corruption ever
Pierced its’ fragile skin.

There are no smog filled monstrosities,
The hulking wastelands were never built.
Yes, cities and towns still exist,
But are no longer centers of consumption,
They coexist.

This is a world we respected,
Took care of; a world we loved.
A world where I can lay
In the meadow and watch
As honey bees adorn my fingers
And I pet their peach fuzz forms
Without fear of pain.

I can wander the streets at night
And see an unfiltered canvas of stars,
Unpolluted by artificial light,
I can wander the streets without fear
Of rapists, murderers, gangbangers
Looking to prove themselves
In some vicious display
Of ‘bravery’ and ‘strength’.

I can return home
And know it is a home,
Not a house.
That miscommunication won’t mar
A disintegrating marriage,
That nobody involuntary endures
That burning, dull ache.

This is a world
Where strangers pass by
And part as friends,
Where friendship can stand
Against the chains of time,
And heartbreak does not
Frighten lonely souls away
Before they ever have the chance
To take that first,
Essential,
Step.

This world is not perfect.
Flaws still cut deep
And revel in the blood spilled.
Pain still throbs through hearts
Like adrenaline in my veins.

But here, we tried.
We cared for flesh
Over worthless materials.
Here we had it
In its’ purest form:

Hope