The Word Cloud

In a world of perfection,
where boundries are unseen.

Birds fly beyond rainbows,
amongst pearls of hate, has been.

Money is the root of distant memories,
cancer is a cure of humanity.

Life is a gift of love,
pain is the past of  reality.

Smiles tired, weary and bereft,
become the morning sunshine.

Wrapped in a lull of serenity,
a passionate gift of life sublime.

But in our creation of perfection,
slept in a universe of dreams.

Is a world we seek beyond,
hanging onto the edge of a scream.