The book of lost dreams still lies in his heart;
Wherever he sought, the pages were not.
Disheartened, he imagined them as blank ...
Or what was worse, the worn leaves were gone.
He couldn’t remember them as though he
Constantly awakened from them each day.
What differentiates remembered dreams
From those that crush memory to whiteness?
Was a curious abyss drawing him
In, or was there something in his regret
Beside Vanity and Self-loathing … when
They try to resolve their differences?
He lost many duels with distracting mind waves
Trying to live those dreams again, but time
Wouldn’t agree to this vague indulgence.
He acted as though it were intended
To deceive him until he slept … never to dream
again.
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