That stare,
Confining my inner-self,
To a small unsymmetrical,
Crevice.
Small minding death,
Temporary and permanent thoughts,
Of a demented oblivion.
In forth, love is for
The crowd.
The amused shouts of
The common vile vermin.
It is us,
The romantics.
That know truly the meaning,
The sabbath, the song,
The dying,
The singing.
It is all a dream,
And my love,
I love dreaming.
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