In Dreams, Responsibilities
I walk through dreams,
and wander past delicate nightmares
within your foolish occupations.
Broken hearts meet in the middle
and die stuck in the first
Whatever is left, when touched,
surely will turn to dust.
In death this dream is real
and in dream this death is imaginary when
Broken hearts are trampled
and spoken words grow hard.
There is nothing to this daydream
as eyes open do not reflect the dawn;
just black pools of emptiness and
nothing else worth living.
She moves and whimpers,
whines for someone to take it away.
She is being trampled and someone
threw her love away.