Illusion

Envious of all those fleeting dreams,

flying upon high tailwinds,

gone in mere seconds,

and leaving trails of melancholic nostalgia over stone pillows.

Life cherished yet cancerous,

breeding toxins,

and spreading like poisonous spore clouds through the forgotten riverbeds.

If only living were more than emotions,

more than these steel cages that hold the swan in place.

Racing waters that must be free,

collapsing upon wave after wave,

when the water touches the salt,

could it avoid the transformation? 

If only life were simple clouds,

and yet those fluffy cottons that ride the breeze are only illusions.

Aren't they imprisoned in their own decree,

never meeting with any other substance that passes their boundaries.

Aren't their dreams just as far out of reach?