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A Wasteland of Wonder

"There is a wasteland of wonder
in the pastures where we walk..."
She was speaking from a sofa
where rooms are spare and white.

We were drinking coffee from mugs
a local potter had thrown, with
designs she'd etched in winter blue
and ancient sky signs seen at night.

"You must believe me when I say,
imagination wafts in blues -
a colour that must be embraced
by all who journey in their dreams..."

We sat beside a hearth where flames
never blaze, nor warmth invade the
blue in her eyes; and I knew then
to doubt the truth within her schemes.

There is a wasteland of wonder
in pastures lush with green, but
words must burn where flames scorch pain
in the kilns of our sight.