Dreams Dead and Buried
In this life, which we live,
No two things are net same,
We wait for juicy jobs,
But are handed hopes and dead dreams and pretty promises
We long for the ladder to the heights of the first heavens,
Yet we yield to the great threshing floor of the forgotten.
We seek fashion and fame,
Only to hustle and hoard, crumbs and cries.
Our lives linger as a shadow of what we once so sought,
Our psyches, a pseudo,
Our dreams, dead and buried.
About the Creator
The Road to Nowhere
Trigger warnings: Violence, Death. "May the Sun burn your tongue out, woman," Fredrick's father screamed the curse into his mother's ear as their elegant little carriage rumbled along, its polished wood and gilded trim glinting in the torchlight. They had just left the small village of Saffron and were on an unnamed road to the capital for the Royal wedding. Fredrick leaned back in his plush velvet seat to escape into the passing landscape, but across from him sat the servant boy, a scrappy lad named Jack. Jack's eyes held a mixture of awe and fear, the kind that only a commoner could feel in the presence of nobility. Jack looked up and caught Fredrick's gaze, offering him a sad little smile before reaching into his pocket and retrieving a little caramel treat. This candy was no doubt stolen from the kitchen treat cupboard; if he was caught with it, he would be locked in the box as punishment.
By Frank English5 days ago in Fiction
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