Why is it that we want farfetched objects?

Perhaps it’s the thought of having something,

Perhaps it’s the rush of its own defect,

Dreams create such affect, the lost ‘f thinking,

Ability to travel anywhere,

Ability to travel without despair,

Ability to travel everywhere,

This be a place where happiness is air.

But then it’s gone, never to be seen, fair.

For why would one deserve such a blithe world?

The dreams that end in thoust death stay, beware.

For it leaves ones emotion ‘vermore twirled

Is all that we see or seem anything?

For what is a dream? Perhaps everything?