We've become so adept at missing the point
that our life is just a collage of days and dreams
minus the art
and, to put it bluntly,
meaning.
But the bigger picture isn't as vivid as you'd think,
a big blurry outline of Rorschach humanity.
Look at the night I ran home naked as a dream.
Or don't look, I don't care.
There's surely a moral to our story as we dig.
Mix the color of the days together too much
and the collage of life turns black as birth.
The past should be revealing as a dream
or perhaps more rational.
But we're missing the point.
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