I smoke my dreams in a bone pipe and blow excuses to the wind. They rise so fast, anxious to touch the sky. Hitting a glass heaven I watch my dreams retreat from the unexpected barrier above.
They fall. They fall so beautifully from the sky as they tumble back down to reality. Back down to me. Such a perfect example of my life is seen that I cannot deem it all a failure. Instead I contemplate upon visual orgies in the sky. I watch for the magic of the moment before they fall. Because they all fall in the end.