Out of Reach
Dreams seem important, but rarely make sense,
it's like peering through a peephole in a fence.
The slivers of truth I'm allowed to see,
when awake they become mysteries to me.
Reflections of reflections are not real,
they're just voids you can never fill.
Memories mere pictures to adore,
like being lost at sea without a shore.
The intangible always out of reach,
this dimension only in death will you breach.
I wonder then what is life lived for,
to be born, then to die and nothing more?
1/14/19
Copyright © Wren Rushing | Year Posted 2019
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