If we could all be dreamers,
Then we wouldn't try to cease
being lost in hopeless reverie.
If there could be rivers
Of endless expertise
We wouldn't swing between impression and integrity.
I watch your blood curl;
As it falls from the dagger that aligns
Expression with worthless lines
Of illusion, that unfurl
Themselves in the stealthy designs
Of a broken mind scattered across a million shrines.
If we could choose to sever
Reason from reverie
Eternal dreamers we would be.
If only we could endeavor
To merge what is stoic with all things free,
Art wouldn't be a necessity.