Living in this barren world of dreams,
Where a nightmare is such a common thing.
Each tree and shrub in our once flourishing land,
Has withered, faded and died.
So much like the memories we once had,
When we ran around with our playmates as innocent little children.

The setting that we once knew,
When thoughts were forgotten and motions unmeasured.
It has gone and has drowned in a sea of publicity.
Where people run and shout after enemies and foe.
The real friends they once had,
Have grown up and become like all the trees and shrubs.
They have withered, faded and died.

But now we have this garden.
Where the grass shines under the rays of our own sunshine.
The beauty we create with each overpowering thought.
It's so natural, it's innocence is unreal,
And we relish our comfort and ignore all else.
Like the frolics of our childhood,
As we ran through bracken and broken down grass.
Searching for the future like a game of hide and seek.

And now we have these four blank walls,
Of our semi-detached garden in our suburban world.
Yet we still recall those childhood dreams.
But only see them in late-night, technicolor.
All the life that blossomed in our world,
Is only seen in living room decor.
The trees have withered, faded and died.
We see them now in reproduction prints.
Hung on Vymura coated scenery,
Surrounding the memories of our own children.

© Edward ian Armchair 2002