In parading realism, logic, and reason
we surrender
that which we've all fought for
And how we fight all the
fucking
time
to keep it alive, or protect it
or even to save the hope that
one day realism is killed
and i can go back
to dream
the impossible is only that which
you left behind when you hung your head
turned around
and stepped back inside
leaving the empty streets,
the gutters,
to collect all the wonder and burning and bitterness
and plans and bike rides and conversations
and pictures of summer and color in her face
and regret
you let tumble out
on
the
ground
But, cheer up.
you're young.
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