There lives within,
A potion of empty dreams.
No one knows it lies,
But nature is made ten times more bitter.
To live in the past, to dream,
Is to make empty promises.
Sweeping up and cloaking,
to paint a picture pretty,
a spring from cruel, cold hist’ry.
Flowers growing, blooming, glowing,
Farmer’s work of tilling, pruning.
We all must work to earn our wages,
Payment’s not always in gold and shillings.
No one knows the pain of silence,
More than those whose fruits lay quiet,
Yet here enlies a satisfaction deep,
The demonic friend of the self-made victor.
Fruits are not always what they seem,
Payments, shillings, not all pleasure.
But they’re often seen in pure discolor,
Rarely in their true demeanor.
We often see the pleasure picture
As our dreams instruct us to see glamour,
The naked eye cannot unveil,
That beneath the cloak is substance dour.
The fruits in their true light uncovered,
The retribution that their color showers,
Acts that are heroic, true,
The uncloaking, the unveiling, not seen, too soon.
For never twill we see this flower,
Till the bearer of the chest empowers,
A locksmith with the key, in sooth,
Wants its giving it till the sand runs over.
Time is up, and treasure bearer,
Knows not that others can see the terror,
Yet when we find it, when ‘tis opened,
The portrait shatters, the fruits all scatter.
Heroic fruits of empty sighs, not seen until their owner withers.
Empty Dreams.