I wish to return to the days long completed
when the strangest fantasies lived only in our dreams.
Now there is no more fantasy within the lidded eye.
Sleep exists only as respite from this cruel life.

We find extravagance and folly in every gilded screen.
What use is there then, for unconscious sconces within the mind,
where we can tuck away originality
until it sprouts and spreads like ivy on a British house.

We cast away any respite from this mundane wonder,
staying eager to see what else there is to see
until nothing is left of our ivy covered minds
except for meager impressions of what once was.

People who wait much further down the road
will one day walk back to this forgotten hideaway.
They will see the traces of what was
but they won’t be able to piece together
our lost lives of slumber.

And so the real unselfish tragedy,
is not our decline-
but the ensuing confusion
caused by impatient minds.