Scars from the past
are inventing new alleys
for exploration,
setting suns are leaving
the sky in burning red
as the day collapses.

And our dream is cast
in the frivolous words
that are sent.
Bent ideas that are
only forms we shape
in our hands.

Pan away from the scene
so we can read aspirations
from just a little 
bit farther away, begging
to stay in the shallow water.
Dream as the father of 
inventions we'll never truly own.

Porous is the skin we wear,
just to dare ourselves
to step into old costume.