The cost of bread

 

When did you stop

believing in dreams,

in miracles, in fairytales,

in fantasy themes?

When did you become

 

so cynical?

 

Was it when you

stopped seeing

beyond the 9 to 5,

the cycle of time

repeating out of control?

Behind the newsprint lies

their ink-stained dividing lines.

Was it when this all

polluted your mind?

 

When did you become

so steadfast, believing

that magic had passed?

Untrusting, in happiness,

thinking that life

was just a slow motion

march to be dead,

last.

 

Did you lose your way,

when the seeds you threw

barely grew?

Only small green sprouts,

not the extravagant stalks

stories talk about.

Did that cause you to jack it all in,

throwing belief to the wind?

Did you forget to water it

with dreams,

to give it the nutrients it needs

to grow tall and thrive

on the stories you reap?

 

When did you let them

grind down your bones,

like the storied giants threatened?

Did you make your bread?

 

Whilst ignoring those lessons,

whilst reaching for the wrong stars.

 

Did that push the

happiness from your head

and leave you only seeing the world

in shades of grey,

not the colours presented

if you open your mind instead?