Bed of Dreams

you will reach the end
and know there was no gold
at the end of the rainbow
for the colorful band of light
like dreams are mirages
enticing,
but never real.

foolish are we, who walk
the tightrope to a destination
without certainty
foolish are we, who invest
on a future of quicksand
promises and lies.

for the signs of fate
are mirror tricks
of a magicians' quick hand
and strategic plotting
awed, we believe in the meaning
of empty symbols.

we whisper our lives
into the bed of dreams
weave our comfort with the stars
that though they twinkle
so lively in the night's sky
are long dead
and so they float aimlessly
like the wishes we so trust.

we perfect then,
not the making of dreams
but the death
written in its possibility.