Sir, you should not scoff at dreams
nor make light of what we've killed for love;
we've given what our hearts can give
and splintered dreams are remnants of
the worlds we've lost, the selves we've shed
upon our paths, like peeling skin.
We've watched our souls take shape again
and again, yet never a murmured hint
of where we go, nor who we are within.
Oh tell me why -- why such a beautiful loss
of our own sweet selves, false-grown, and where
do all of the pieces fall, and who collects
those many, shattered bits, to rearrange in some flat mold
where the old is lost, and a new me, found.
Dear sir, you laugh, yet I do not doubt
that our dreams have kept the best of us
alive, and all that's shed away
was not meant to last, and would those flaws remain
as life continually changed,
our selves would stay,
but our hearts would not survive.