XXVII

XXVII

Tuesday, December 31, 2013

Sown White

Is it better to give up dreaming
Than to not dream at all...?
I fill up the atmosphere with my clouds of smoke,
 Like a old Christmas carol... With all the sentiments gone...
In my cloak of mysticism 
The eyes I see of beauty and love
Have dimmed the final rays...
Hair use to match the irises
Sown to white... now at deep blue seas
We feel the drugs sore through our veins.... 
Like a sale-boat in thunderstorm... 
Its hard to determine the direction or which piece of you will break. 
In my silence closely to death I whisper something even I cant hear... 
And in that bountiful moment the waves wash over the boat 
And the rest of the pain sinks...

 It is better not to dream at all...

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