(Dream in Black and White)

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Riddles  |  House: Booksie Classic
Imagination isn't always in color.

Submitted: November 24, 2011

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Submitted: November 24, 2011

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Even more skies of gray

January, February, April, and May.

Mist, fog, dew, and rain,

I suddenly feel a stab of pain.

Go to bed, and dream some more

Dreams of black and white, such a bore.

In these dreams, I can smell the waters,

Rising storms, why do I bother?

Dreams of black and white,

Each and every single night.

Like dreaming of a candle and dead rose,

Or a statue in an ugly pose.

You can’t change what’s already done,

And if you lose, you can’t say you won.

In truth, life’s just not always fair

But sometimes, just try not to care.

People can be bleak and blunt,

Like a lion that is late to the hunt.

They can be boring as black and white,

Or nasty and wanting to pick a fight.

Sometimes they’re beyond what we know,

And maybe that’s a place we don’t want to go.

Each night I dream of folded skies,

And the voices I hear only speak lies.

Every spring thousands of butterflies fly away,

And we wonder, whose that special butterfly that shall stay?

Why do some people dance, not sing?

Or wonder which finger they should wear their ring?

Life is just full of unanswered questions,

That’s just another thing, I forgot to mention.Even more skies of gray

January, February, April, and May.

Mist, fog, dew, and rain,

I suddenly feel a stab of pain.

Go to bed, and dream some more

Dreams of black and white, such a bore.

In these dreams, I can smell the waters,

Rising storms, why do I bother?

Dreams of black and white,

Each and every single night.

Like dreaming of a candle and dead rose,

Or a statue in an ugly pose.

You can’t change what’s already done,

And if you lose, you can’t say you won.

In truth, life’s just not always fair

But sometimes, just try not to care.

People can be bleak and blunt,

Like a lion that is late to the hunt.

They can be boring as black and white,

Or nasty and wanting to pick a fight.

Sometimes they’re beyond what we know,

And maybe that’s a place we don’t want to go.

Each night I dream of folded skies,

And the voices I hear only speak lies.

Every spring thousands of butterflies fly away,

And we wonder, whose that special butterfly that shall stay?

Why do some people dance, not sing?

Or wonder which finger they should wear their ring?

Life is just full of unanswered questions,

That’s just another thing, I forgot to mention.


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