In and Around the Mulberry Bush

Why is it that we spend so much of our life thinking we understand happiness,
only to find out that happiness can be shattered during impulsive and rash moments?
Why is it that a sharp tongue and repressed feelings can weave a pattern of torn hearts and seething hatred?
Why is it that most of the time, we can't see the misshapen clock of misfortune,
for the wheels seem perfectly round and no matter what,
they keep spinning in pretty colors,
distractng us from the time wasted and lost on a life that we can't undo?
Why does the second hand keep the time moving foward
when sometimes we wish all would stop?
Why can't things work out in perfect synchronicity?
I am the eternal optimist, living in a pessimist's world,
and I feel my colors fading into the darkness that shrouds life's existence.
Paint my canvas with new colors
and show me a green sunrise and a sea of red and orange;
take me to a world of flying zebras and talking animals;
blindfold me and pull me into a world of dancing statues and still life.
Spin me around and let me go.
I want to wander aimlessly until I can dance no more.
I want to fall into the rabbit hole and come out the other side --
into a life undiscovered.