A year of dreaming:
burst.
A year of hope.

A bubble of sweet wishes
like the last bubble blown:
it seemed to last forever.
As the other glitter
reflecting dead dreams
died around
dissolving,
one survived.

But all the looking,
all the wishing,
all the hope,
a drop of hurt,
splattered on the floor.

Hell welcomes me again
another trip round the tourist sights:
the wishes of "What If",
the fire of "What Should Have Been".

Formulas belong in the dying dreams of science,
in newly filmed repeats in the television desert.

I said nothing,
like another rusty machine,
another rational logic gate,
another dry processor
in the statistic age.

Yet your look was "Yes"
and my dreams were you.
I waited for you to say what I saw,
you waited for me to come anyway,
and the bubble died.

Why is England so full of fools?

setting
from detritous