a myriad of dreams,
a mosaic of lies,
brief, fleeting images,
at the edge of my mind,
seep like sand through,
the phantom hands of my soul,
Dreams of things that could be,
Or perhaps will be,
opiating mirages splash,
Into my heart's chalice,
they fill my heart and,
I dance to their tunes,
like a lifeless puppet,
or perhaps a fool.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem