Heavy Dreams

dreams and hopes.
heavy shapeless things.
high on life, we smoke up reality
and puff out dreams.
they are round and edgeless, because we want them to be likewise.
how free and light it felt while smoking it all up.
how wonderful and colorful and full of love.
and then while we were dreaming, bloody scheming silent slimy serpent of time
slithered past us without us ever letting know.
and all remained is the slime of memories, that touch of the serpent.
just the nagging alive feeling of some dead moment of past

and from time to time, the cloud of dreams clear up
and we are left staring at the brutal blandness of reality
and we are left wondering, 'where the fuck was I all this while?'
and 'what the fuck am I doing now?'

and 'why the *your favourite expletive* have i not tried flying?'
all this while, afraid and dreaming
letting the dreams add to itself weight of rust
until it gets too heavy to fly.
giving up on the fact that reality and dreams are just differently colored clouds.
all we ever needed to do was to smoke the right stuff..