Was It Always...? (Edited)

Was it always this way,
or just my oblivion was the sleigh?
or was it this nightmare the real world
that made my sweet dreams, go astray?

Are these undergrowth and gardens
in my dream,
heaven, a shared godly dream?

Maybe we shield our screams
by sugar coding our blues,
like a dummy always smiling,
sitting on the same shelves of views,

dusting them every once in a while,
but never dusting what they stand for,
or descry their cliches,

or never running into
the sciolism their disconcerting habitus
could construe.

Then when all the sweetness is licked away
maybe farewell is all that there is
we could ever say.

Maybe this fatigue,
these runnings nights and days, all the way,
are some debts we ought to pay.

Maybe these breathless sways,
aren’t between here and there,
but are between oncoming and
the keep fleeting, faraway.

Maybe not to be,
is the right way to be.

Maybe it is just me
in this hellhole who is enchained
for pleading like branches
to be free,

shackled to such bifurcating roots,
lurking and disseminating
beneath a tree!

Maybe my fineness is crude.
Maybe these flowers are only
some nefarious thorns' idiosyncrasy.

Maybe my big heart is my death knell.

Maybe a big heart is a farewell to this hell,
the fire that our nights,
from our ashes
like the scintillating sparks,
dispel.