Dreams

I did this poem off the cuff, so it doesn't really have a structure. I liked how it turned out though.

Dreams are like a pearl necklace around the throat of a woman at a high class ball,

they're hung well above our reach,

and take only one sharp tug to be sent crashing to the silvery floor below.

Dreams are like sunshine in that both only stare at you from afar,

never getting close.

Dreams are like vengeance in that they never do any good,

least of all for the one who perpetrates them.

I live in a city of dreams.

As I write these words I look out of my window at the homes of dozens of people,

many of whom probably think of themselves as fairly serious minded folk,

and all of whom had a dream.

They dreamt they'd be here,

as I dreamt.

But like me they aren't here, not really

They live in their little apartments,

on this little street,

in their tiny lives,

and nothing keeps them going,

nothing but the dream.

The ancient Greeks used to believe in a woman named Pandora,

a Woman,

because it would be a woman,

who was sent to earth by the gods with a box filled with all the evil in the world,

and men,

just like men

were expected to do we opened the box and released all of the evils,

all the disease,

all the famine,

all the war.

But the one evil that we didn't release,

the one that the box was shut on,

was the sin of hope,

of a dream.

We live in a world of shattered dreams,

filled with shattered people trying to achieve them.