The Rose That Grew from ConcreteDid you hear about the rose that grewfrom a crack in the concrete?Proving nature’s law is wrong itlearned to walk with out having feet.Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams,it learned to breathe fresh air.Long live the rose that grew from concretewhen no one else ever cared.
Cold. Wind. Swing.
As a mechanical clock life fades away, desperately counting numbers until, suddenly, is nothing but late. Through its white veil, death accepts me while He, the master of ceremonies, patiently stares at me and wait. Game over. I do. Kiss me with your cold unforgiving lips and show me why… show me why.
Cold. Wind. Swing.
I had a dream and in that dream I could fly. I was running as fast as I could and then I decided to jump, and I jumped high. I felt so free, floating in different dimensions. I was free. Free was me, except it was only a dream and at the end of a dream there is always waking up to reality.
Cold. Wind. Swing.
Every time I close my eyes I see me, but me was not me. Maybe that’s why I dream, to pervert this reality that contains me. If life is a dark box, dreams are a breach, that tiny space through which light sneaks. Then in a flash: fingers, hands and feet. Do you see?
Cold. Wind. Swing.
A mind expanding like our Universe but deep in a binary tree, by acquiring experiences so we can dream. Overflow. Change. Be. But something else, not me.
Maybe dreams are these random mutations that transform perception so we can see, but not really see, exist. Yes, exist! Dreams are a gift, a tiny possibility of hope; a desperate shout of Life to break into the limits of matter and become. Simply… become by shattering the shackles of real. Is that why, God? Is life this forever and constant seek for change? Are dreams just words of a poetry?
But cold, wind and swing.
And a beam; and a knot… and a neck. And a me. Please, open the door of time and let me in. Perhaps me may then become we. Lasting together in a dark supernova trying to find meaning. Please, spread yourself on me cause I can’t know where I begin.
It was a cold windy afternoon when I hang myself on a beam because Love can’t be forsaken and I had a dream.
Some get out. Some get in.
And I had a dream.
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