Dreams

The Elementalist Epoch

Cornered,
Pressed beneath falling snow,
Left unsaid, unused, untried,
The morning breaks.

Impure,
Alone despite the crowds,
Washing eyes of vulgarous thoughts,
Mimicking the clown.

Laughter,
Used at once as self defense,
Carried harmlessly,
Wielded as our shield.

There will not come another,
Not as sweet as this.

Feverish,
Dreams that toss and turn,
Ghosts that flutter,
Past the window pane.

There could not be another,
Not as great as this.

So I will press onward,
Captured,
Soiled,
Filtering my passion,
Needing nothing more.

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