The streets look the same, and yet time passes always. Flowers come into bloom then wilt like everything else. Faces change then come back again. Months turn into years, and still you lose, but a dream is a dream and always will be. Words make way for more words, and sometimes it’s as if none of them make sense at all. It feels as if the only thing to do is throw them away like you would a photograph of someone you once loved but who is now gone. But where there’s faith there’s beauty and where there’s beauty hope remains. As light as a feather, we drift in the breeze and see things they’ll never see. And when we collapse like old buildings or towers amidst the fury of war, we’ll crawl into the shade, and away from others we’ll put ourselves back together again, and even when there’s only the air in our lungs to keep us company, hope will linger. Hope will remain. The streets flood and vehicles come to a standstill. Smoke billows from chimneys and leaves become islands in the puddles that form on the pavements leading to those parking lots you find yourself drawn to on your late-night walks. While others join in the ebb and flow of life, you stand there with tears rolling down your face at the thought of dying, and yet somehow, you’re smiling. You’re hungry and you’re cold, and these inner blues you know won’t ever shift, but as the light of the new moon washes over you, you close your eyes and find yourself floating over all the towns and cities you’ve ever stepped foot, and even though there’s no escaping death, you can’t help but laugh. So many failures. So many wasted days, and yet from up high everything looks so pretty, and as you reach out your hands and float on, it doesn’t matter at all. You’re an orb on its way to some other place, and out there, somewhere, are orbs just like you, and maybe it’s chance or could be it’s fate, but one day, before it’s too late, you’ll join them in a great dance, and when you do, these days of pain won’t mean a thing.