When you can’t find the words to express how you feel.
Your heart is shackled by some unseen force; yearning, scraping for appeal.
How is it, when the moon is high, are my thoughts no longer dry?
Surrounded, I am a waste land: disregarded. Unnoticed.
But alone, I am me.
I am no longer empty.
It’s those times in the day, when everything is calm.
Everything is gentle. Secure. Yet also wild.
That my wall is naught but a shattered glass, broken free by endless imagines.
They flood my mind with ideas. Some, I daresay, too strange.
It is during those times of day, that reality is fantasy, and fantasy is reality.
Where I am me, I have no limits for how far my mind can wander.
Things that others find unimportant, are then at the peak of my attention.
The sky is the limit, so we’ve all been told.
But why not the galaxies?
Why not travel on, instead of stopping half way?
The clouds are beautiful, you might say, and dare I disagree.
But the clouds are just the beginning, say I, the dreamer.
The star sweeper. Daydreamer.