wishful.

some dreams don't come true.
rainbows, don't always bear gold at their end.
sometimes the matter's "see through".
translucent, so never will it transcend.
nostalgia's not the cure.
faces drift back into the horizon.
goodness becomes obscured.
wasted. that's what's become of time spent.
yet, for every dream smashed
and every delusion broken
all the feelings and movements dashed
not one word even spoken...
there is still a glimmer,
of a new wish, glowing from afar;
a mild-mannered shimmer.
so again, you place your dream upon a star.