The Things I Leave Unsaid

74. Ironic is the Night

It's five past one am and
I'm still flying through the air.
The happiness is brief but
right now, I don't think I care.

I'm picturing a pretty world
Lovely hands to hold and curl
My fingers 'round
like air to breathe,
Sunshine, stress free, and
no more sleeves!

But it's night now and the darkness,
Is ironic to my mood.
I'm lighter now than any other.
What a joke, and one so crude.

I tiptoe sweet and silent
Across the battered squeaky floor.
Nicked so quick
by a nail so thick,
But unfaltering, hands stretch to grip the door.

My feet still seem to possess the drive
for more and I don't think

I could take much more of this
if rescue's on the brink.

And now that escape's an option, finding hope not such a chore.

But they tell me hope only lasts
just so long as I still endure.

So it scares me that the hope is draining from my vital core.

Hearts, even bravest, will give out when
they forget what's worth fighting for.

But now I'm filled with utter glee.
Yes, making even less sense to me,
But cherished are these moments few
Which hold no logic, reason, or clue,

But lovely irregardless,
A conclusion I've come to.
Though all are just dilutions
In my head that won't come true.

Still, let me go pretend a bit
To keep me sane for you.