There Is No Dream

I’m like some old steam engine shunted into a railway siding,

Or an old favourite book left lying on the shelf dust gathering.

I’m in solid sorrow for being, once again, the forgotten one,

Going from being the expected one, to being the nothing someone.

Now I am a relic sitting in the basement of a museum,

Like a once popular music album, that had everyone dancing

But is now buried on the bottom of a pile of old vinyls,

No longer played, no longer touched, ignored and out of style.

I’m like a shrivelled orange sat in a glass bowl in a cupboard,

It shapes my heart into a battered over used and old dartboard.

I no longer walk, like I used to, along the countryside paths,

For I have lost the meaning of this dream along with my innocence.