He sighed, a heavy weary sigh,
eternally pushing the boulder
was easier than this,
but he must begin again.
Dreams seemed faded now,
a long forgotten memory
half jotted down
on a tattered notepad
lost in an unused chest.
The robotic voice chirps
a brusk reply of denial,
ancient are the days
of talking to another soul
in this age of cold convenience.
His eyelids are heavy
and his eyes ache with frustration.
He’ll call again tomorrow
and tomorrow
and tomorrow.

Whether it’s an adventure through darkest forests,
uncovering ancient conspiracies,
the layers buried deep in the landscape,
or exploring the deep blackness of forever,
to build a fantasy is a noble pastime.
Lose yourself in the love of play
and to those who want you to
unlearn your imaginations:
when your inner child died, did you mourn?