gone

Those long stories about that fancy, mysterious place,
where it is all the same,
where nothing can be seen,
and nothing is there to be found,
where our path once crossed.

I often find myself wandering along the line
between the fancy unreality and the unreal reality.
Love is but a desert place,
and the stream of fresh water is but an illusion.

Everybody walks in.
Some come out alive,
but most never return.

I want to live like her,
walking along the line, the border
not trying to look for the stream
careless.

Everybody dies,
we laugh when we thought the stream is found.
we suffer when realized that it is merely an illusion.
devastated, everything shatters, the inside as well as the outside.
nothing was left but brokenness.

so come fly with me...