Are we alive?
All of us who wander the weird inner worlds,
who travel through secret chambers of our hearts,
through streets of autumn summers,
into a personal museum of dreams;
where wonders from hopes,
now lie preserved for eternity,
for travelers seeking their own place in history,
only to spend few hours at a time,
before departing into the futures of their past.

Are we alive?
Those that stitch words into emotions,
thoughts into sentiments,
smiles into joys,
sorrow into melancholy,
miseries into memories,
love into stories.

Where are we all?
We the living members of-
Dead Poets Society.

Where are we all?