A Beach House on Mars

I marvel at my simplicity;
everything around you whirls, complex.
You sow oats in a monastery
playing shameless and oblivious,
though everyone knows you're neither.
I watch and imagine shaking you
(as if that would somehow help)
and pointing you in the right direction
to your babies, long abandoned,
the lost dreams you forgot about,
to the potential I see, but no one thinks exists.
My goals may be lofty, a beach house on Mars,
yet my wish that you would find your bliss
seems so much more farfetched.