There is a certain kind of hysteria
A quiet kind of lunacy
Of those who cannot who take the road less traveled
But instead get lost amongst the trees
They seize innocence
Like a creature with wings
Only to caress
To embrace
To feed
Obsession that leads
To inivitable death
Of the very thing they smothered
In an effort to be free
We are mourners
Who attend the funerals
Of the fleeting
To see the wonder
And chase the fairies
Yet with each starry night
We feel the entropy
So often we’re a footnote tragedy
But like a shooting star
There is the rarity
Who leaves awe and loveliness
In a realm where they were never meant to be
They are beautiful fools
They are willful naiveté
They are a mere glimpse
Of breathtaking possibility
They are the magicians who teach us to believe
They are the rebels
I can only hope to be
So here is to the music makers
And here is to the dreamers of the dreams
Iconoclastgrey Word Artist 