In the end when the words wash over us
and the golden light wasn't enough to keep
on dreaming, being afraid to fall asleep
for fear of waking up. All doubts
would seem to not matter, except
the regrets which refuse to allow such
memories to decay. The tortuous havens
of silence which by choice or necessity,
were the only way to continue. Beauty
and inspiration seeming unreachable once
again. But all of it not mattering.
For then we come to wonder if the
inherent irreplaceableness of those souls
that bring color to the world is simply inside
our own minds.
Until we find once again, that it's lovely to
be wrong.
