I'm drinking the coffee of my dreams
In a room forged by the optimistic hopes of my youth
And the relative ignorance of my early adulthood.
Despite the dark that presses in
And my own inner storms that threaten electrical fire
The walls here explode with the colours that flowers had before they had names.
The people here appear to have never lost that lust that makes every midnight a fairy tale
And fills every flickering candle with a burnt out spirit breaking free.
Despite the crowd,
And the valiant armour of daydreams and whispered fantasies,
Not all questions can find their answers
And I wonder:
If we could touch the things we see through telescopes
If we would still feel their mystic pull
Or if they would fall in amongst our old toys,
Once loved and now forgotten.
Ignoring the arrogance of my Cynic,
My Realist takes the reins and calls 'em as she really sees 'em,
(Like a fresh breeze through the catacombs of my spirit)
And the truth is I want cake.
And I want to eat it too.
Not a couple of polite guilty bites,
But rather an empowered and decadent display,
Soulful tribute to sugary pastries...
But I get the impression it's all death by chocolate
And as sweet as that smells,
It still sounds like drowning to me.
