Maturity is where dreams go to die.
To have grown up is to be mature
And passage is contingent like security at an airport:
Water is to be consumed or discarded
But you can’t take it with you.
That the American Dream is dead is true,
Because all dreams are
Because they were never real, or reality,
For most without favorable circumstances.
It batted eyes at us, once in youth,
And old age is spent wondering “What might have been?”.
A plain, wooden desk sits in taupe halls;
The color clash annoys you
But beggars can’t be choosers, and you’re a regular
Till time passes and eventually laps you.
A dream is as real as a circle of light on the wall to a cat:
It will chase it for a while, feverishly,
But it needs to eat, and maybe it has a family.
Then dusk dawns and the circle has left
Only shadows from false lights that never really replace the sun.
The photograph is taken from Arnaav Bhavanani’s album: [ˈPRAꞪA]