And just as sinful sharp.
We kill our dreams
And waste our lives
Longing for them back.
The blood is dark upon our hands
And gnaws upon our soul.
Our fitful dreams
And fevered days
Remind us what we lack.
Until at last we find a hole
And hide there with a mate.
Strip a child of their dreams
And give them ours instead:
Reassembled hastily with glue upon the cracks.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Buried somewhere in here is an element of "This Be the Verse" by Philip Larkin. But I'm not quite as negative as him. Maybe. I don't know.
