The dream's no longer ephemeral
Its now a metaphysical manifestation of all my upsetting worries
It now takes priority over breathing, thinking, existing
Staying true to a goal, staying true to myself
The budding flower that grew no more is ever as much a part of me as is the flower long-since bloomed
And long-since dead
The plastic roses and make-shift smiles shoot endorphins into eyes for miles and miles
Not a single eye lays rest to the tears that they hold though.

They just turn red.

Crying blood, crying shame, crying.

The tears that roll down my eyes are not the dream, the lake that they make though, when gathered, glimmer like a thousand crescent moons
And shine silently
The dream is now real,
the dream has grown quiet.

And I, I have grown lost and weary.