The image is faded.
A mist of passing tome settles over memories of yesterdays in arms.
Was it just a dream, a cruel trick of a wandering mind, an ideal to aspire to, clouded over silver linings which never were?
Who knows. Do you or I?
Everyone sees a different happening, two paths not parallel, hardly ever crossing, if so haphazardly, awkwardly, chaotically.
In my reality which craves symmetry, the angles distort into harmonious curves full of colour and light and luscious glows.
Who knows where light begins and where it will fall and if it can be guided? Unlikely it seems, though fate may through an angle here or there.
Who can steer this mystery and through it all should?
And could one dare to travel blind missing the joy that can be found with opened eyes
Or would we blinded be by reflections from mirrored visions of the silver linings dwelling in my troubled mind?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.