There was a lady of the wild,
who said there existed an isle,
raining forever it had stood,
mysterious patterns carved in wood.
And on an unknown hour,
started a boy,
in search for the mythical isle,
dreams cluttered in a pile.
When he reached it finally,
it had been many years hence,
and an old man now,who was a boy before,
wanted to go back to his home again.
The fragile dreams that break,
narrow perceptions that shake,
the waving ocean,in the tides that clear,
high and low,slowly they go.
But the ocean did feel for him,
inducing hallucinations to the brim,
that his life was good and fair,
evenings spent drinking sake in flair.
But there’s no such company,
as it seems to him that there is,
who is there to tell him,
and why do we all feel so grim?
But as the river flows forward,
in the delusion he has sired,
an eternity will pass away in a bubble,
the boy who was never tired.