We were such special people then, 
flying high above the rest,
like the arrogant angels we saw 
playing way above the clouds.
We could almost touch them
with our arms outstretched
as we danced our way through 
a youth of endless possibilities.
But other people were unimpressed.
They had no wish to touch the angels, 
or reach the stars, even if they could.
They looked down to us, not up.
Laughed and shook their heads
at our strangeness and waited
for our dreams to fracture as theirs had done.
We did not hear the soundtrack of their voices.
Did not see that their dreams had split open 
and rotted away consuming them in the decay.

Now we have become the rest
and know that we were not so special then. 
But just practicing for a life that would elude us 
as our dreams remained dreams.
Dreams which became decayed imaginings 
growing dusty with time and fading.
Like them, we were consumed in the rot of our dreams

as ordinariness reclaimed us and the angels let us fall. 


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