Where do dreams go when they die?
Do they have special place to hide?
So they can appear sometimes, to live out their glory?
Or are they stilled forever?
Where do memories go when they don’t die?
Do they live in the heads of people?
Or are they, trapped in boxes so deep, never to emerge?
Are they squished as soon as they rear their once pretty heads?
What happens to relationships when they curdle?
Are they dumped like memories and dreams?
Do the people in them ache and yearn for the happiness that once was?
Or is that killed too?
Perhaps they make new memories, new dreams
And pretend to revel in them till they die
Ignoring the plaintive ghost-cries of the old
Seeking a ‘happily ever after’
Not realising that it exists only in foolishly hopeful minds.
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