Cold Are Our Hearts But Beating Still Poem by RIC BASTASA

it is all but a dream
we are but illusions
my hands are mists
and so are yours
my lips are imaginary
flowers of the last
summer

it is all but a dream
a flower of my own fertilized
misery
a bud of my bid for
survival

in this dream
everything wants to be true
no one wants to be unreal
but we somehow have to
wake up
one morning
and meet the rain and wind
harsh on our skin
wet on our hair
cold are our hearts
but beating still.