Aging Parents, surreal dreams

In the attic of your heart, they dwell, Like forgotten relics in a spell, Their whispers soft, a distant stream, In the labyrinth of your surreal dream. Within this dream, your parents aged and wise, Are pillars standing 'midst the shifting sands, Their faces etched with tales of starlit skies, Their eyes, two lanterns held in weathered hands. Yet as you reach to grasp their fading light, They slip away like whispers in the breeze, Their voices lost amidst the fading night, Leaving you adrift upon the seas. Their love, a garden overgrown, With weeds of neglect, left to roam, While you chase mirages in the moonbeam, Oblivious to their cries in your surreal dream. Yet beneath the surface, a tempest stirs, A longing to break free from selfish spurs, To embrace the truth in the moon's gleam, And awaken from this surreal dream.