how dead we are

How dead we are;
to be not able to pluck our own grieving flowers:
Crying at happy places, 
the sane child in you would have died to be there.
Care not for the color of walls now,
how many cracks in ceiling or
one month old pile of clothes you sleep next to:
Staring at the blank sheets
a cascade universes equivalent feelings:
you say you feel nothing?
The blurring out lights, 
or freezing away oasis;
the thousands mask you changed everyday,
or the million pains you numbed that you no longer feel:
Killed the music;
but noise still bothers you.
Went down the alley where no ghosts live;
You homed a forest where no butterflies fly;
changed yourself for souls as hard as stones:
So where did you go?
How far did you go?


How dead we are;
to dream in a perfect alive dream.