Untitled Story or Poem or Whatever (the Result of Being Really Tired)

There is a boy,
well, really he's a man.
He's mostly grown up,
but he hasn't got a real plan.
Everything in his life seems predetermined,
but not by fate or God,
but by the fabrics of society,
blanketing and blinding him.

But the boy (or man) keeps walking along,
and now it seems beauty has intervened,
and the streets are paved and gleaming,
new green is growing when others are leaving.
But despite all the new additions to his yard,
there's an empty spot in the back, near the pond.

And it doesn't feel right,
it's been gone for sometime,
the spot where something used to sit but now has not been for quite a while.

Was it ever really there?
"Yes", he swears, he's seen it before. It haunts his dreams and it's carved in his floor and everyone else thinks the garden is full.
But tragically, only he can see the decay,
the waste and the spreading of nightmares and grey.
Knowing this one thing gone is the key to all things,
the bringer of joy and freedom and open field dreams.

He walks over the grave,
so deep he can't see,
the bottom or end, transcending the earth.
And he looks out on the wasteland that others call his turf,
and they enviously glare at his supposed achievements,
without ever finding a channel to reach him,
because perception is altered from body to body,
time has changed even the modest to haughty.

The man trudges on.
He tries to look forward but suddenly looks back,
and the small boy he sees, he is taken aback,
and he falls to his knees and wants the past so bad,
but it is not for the man, only for the boy.
He knows not how he knows, but only that he does know,
and it is cement in his mind, it is certainly so.

So the man sighs deeply and marches on,
knowing not what he'll come across,
but knowing he'll find another spot to lay,
and new gardens to grow,
and new air to be breathed,
new life to be seen,
fresh surroundings.

And maybe, the man, he startles to think,
will cross the barrier that borders the brink,
of the thing he's been missing this whole time,
the oldest of old desires for all of man kind,
love, and just a little more time.