Awake we sleep, and fallen into hope;
in unliving and living's context we grope
wanting the morrow like yesterday's wishes seem;
a tail after the head, we chase our fruitless dreams.
Dusty nightmares as fallen angels haunt;
needless but true?
Not lest we see, not till we knew
smiles of the faceless whose knowledge they flaunt
Of reality's missing daunt; kissing daggers as fearless swordsmen's songs
singing of blood and glory in a single dance of beauty and death -
unsightly a barren peasant's sheathe, but efficient
as nameless sins sink deep.
What comes? In endless travels into drawings made of last sunshine's reach?
A locket, sealed with keys thrown in oceans deep where wandering wishes cannot siege.
In lifeless mornings a single insect doth stutter, slowly in the same unchanging path -
one always taken with no excitement; a story where known is the second half.
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