It seems to me that golden sparks and silver shimmerings,
Belong to those that still have dreams and wonderful imaginings.
For those of us tired and weary,
Dreams are of death and end.
As though somehow,
The urge to continue,
Wanes,
Like a dissolving moon,
Appearing to disappear,
Its presentness luckily found,
Again the horizon allows slow moving shadows,
To reflect the sunshine of the day,
To creep slowly 'cross the sky,
And bring understanding of the night.
This is my end,
When stars fade to black,
Nothing is left for me here,
Not for lack of desire,
But for a lack of dreams.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 2:30 AM UTC
It seems to me that golden sparks and silver shimmerings,
Belong to those that still have dreams and wonderful imaginings.
For those of us tired and weary,
Dreams are of death and end.
As though somehow,
The urge to continue,
Wanes,
Like a dissolving moon,
Appearing to disappear,
Its presentness luckily found,
Again the horizon allows slow moving shadows,
To reflect the sunshine of the day,
To creep slowly 'cross the sky,
And bring understanding of the night.
This is my end,
When stars fade to black,
Nothing is left for me here,
Not for lack of desire,
But for a lack of dreams.
