I.
A blur of colours spins 'round and 'round,
Sparkling and shimmering ever so bright,
Whirling and dancing and calling to me.
They are people and music and wonderful things.
I open my eyes.
This is not the true world.
Where is the anger, the fear and the pain?
Where are the tensions that ought to run rife?
What is this perfect place?
It isn't real.
It can't be real.
Where are those who disturb the peace?
Where are all the malcontents?
Surely even in a perfect world
The unhappy have their place.
Surely even in a perfect world
Unhappiness exists.
How else could it be?
This isn't real.
It won't be real.
Wake up!
This is but a dream.
December '00
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