Everyone knows,
has been here and there…
Seen what has passed—
And Monday always gives way
to Tuesday.
But not everyone always remembers,
nor do they feel…
That everything is different but
the same,
same…
And I have this heart
that tells me,
And dreams that remind me—
Somebody, though, is going to tell you
it isn’t real.
Make you question,
and give it away like an illusion.
That will save the world,
and them!
Oh, but the story is a song,
playing on your emotion,
And all eyes opened or closed,
recognize it the same:
Dying to live again,
live again…
That one spectacular moment
(Whether it ever existed).
It’s the only practical
way to sanity,
Believing:
That you did,
He loved,
She was,
They came like rain,
And went like wind on a Saturday.
That there was a place
and time,
majestic—
Where it all came together:
How a kaleidoscope forms a butterfly,
of all its broken pieces.
Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2014 All Rights Reserved
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