The Dreamers

Aren’t the dreamers the best of the mad? I consider myself a perfect dreamer, a master romantic. 

Falling for the facade of happiness in deceptive dreams of hope.

Always chasing her 

Whoever she is.

For you see, I never did hold her.

Happiness, she--was a placebo. 

The more friendly face of Pain.

I've given up on madness and no longer consider myself a dreamer,

For one cannot dream with broken sight.

Yes, I had to yield my title of Masterful Romantic to the grim reaper, 

who stole it from me

I had no choice but to accept it,

Like you.

And once you accept that pain

To be truly blinded by that which will tear your sight into a thousand pieces of broken ice,

you will see.

A reflection of your own self in that sunset you will see, 

New, blinding hues you will finally notice and

be truly

painfully

happy 

And scream out with cracking frost, 

falling down your cheeks 

That you can see

And you will say,

This

is the color of water.