fauxcroft

Vermilion nights

With tangerine dreams,

And days coloured in aquamarine

And filled with transcendental meanings,

All of this works against the machine

And the echoes of spiritual themes,

Only seen by those who remember where they have been

When travelling the cosmic anomalies,

And manifesting on higher frequencies

Know that life and death is just an illusion,

A story we write like a magical fantasy

Which we can write with such beauty,

Yet we, for some reason, include suffering

As if we don’t then the dream won’t seem complete,

Because we have to endure and feel everything.

So the torment we suffer is our own

And only realise this when we’ve grown,

And we succumb then to a life of servitude, misery and angst,

And the dreams of colour just transform to norms

And the magical life is then torn,

From the imaginary of our multidimensional visions that we see

When we were young and life was the simplest thing,

Where we appreciated just existing as mad as that seems,

Those days when we believed we could be anything,

But as we aged that belief slipped away.