what is life,
if not colored by a little fantasy?
I shall rather fly away
on the wings of my imagination,
than wither slowly by
dripping sands of time.
is there anything more painful,
than dying by grinding of the mundane?
let them ridicule me,
for my feet not being grounded;
will the bean counters ever comprehend,
ecstasy of riding the winged horses,
and flying away?

We survive

burdened with the
thoughts of mundane,
mind can not perceive
what lies in front,
eyes see garbage
where roses bloom.
alas, such are the
ways of life
we need to do,
to survive.
we dream,
and then see
them shattered,
the heart bleeds,
while the eyes
run dry.
we survive.
we survive,
at what cost?