Every dream is flawed

Buru said:

She was born some time after than I was
In those akward years
Of blushes and discarded dolls
The pretty coloured dresses
In piles on the floor,
A vision of ensuing chaos...
As the rocking horse
Rocked on its own,
No one to ride him now
The corners called
Come...come here
To be forgotten
Come...come here
We will find you a new home...


She was a quiet person
A beautiful portrait
Of soft demure
And soothing words
For everyone but me.
She liked to question every thought
And think about every question...
Invading doubts
Never gave me rest
Overconscious and too wrapped up
In herself
To notice the world living
Outside her window
Outside her mind...


From time to time a reaching arm
Would find its way across long hallways
inhabited by echoes and smoke
It would emerge from the thick bramble
Bearing scars of prickly caresses
And is she worth it?
I wonder... She wonders...
For one brief second we agree
Put an end to this dichotomy
As plums still rot in plum trees
And night follows day follows night
As questions still remain unanswered
And somehow she still lives on
Even years after she was born...


If I had the strength
I would kill her
I would wrestle the air out of her
Till she squirmed no more
And watch her blue and bloated
Lying lifeless on the floor
Watch as one watches
An interesting insect
That's carrying more load
It can carry on its own.
A martyr, a lost soul...
From the day she was born
A nightmare, a burden
And far too heavy a load.


The rocking-horse still beckons
Come...come play once more
we can turn back the time
If we rock hard enough..
We can kill the blackness in her
The doubts and self-control,
Bring forth the beauty dormant
That has yet to glow
Break away from this prison
Break away and run
To lands of fields ripe and gold
And if plums still rot in plum trees
We won't mind at all...
For every dream is flawed.