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It’s a dream that roams our brainwaves like
vagabonds in search of themselves-
a thought-
a layered touch that protects us from
ourselves-
the greatest times can be had
in the busiest of rooms-
rooms so loud that you can’t hear yourself
or others speak-
but what does that matter when
there’s just enough solace that you
can discern your inner voice-
it’s a crime to ignore it-
anonymous-
like the girl of the uchter moor-
hidden from the world but so very present-
a nameless set of bones and skin known only to
history,
but there all along-
sisyphean hopes-
mixed with long forgotten struggle-
a painful and mysterious cocktail
that can be all too familiar-
did her demons die with her,
conjoined with her joys-
or did they sleep with her in a preserving embrace
for the duration-
were they her steadfast companions,
there in the pitch-
a constant chatter that refused to cease-
a persistent voice wailing for a light
that never seemed to appear-
darkness for over two thousand years-
was it bright the day you entered-
was it warm the moment you slipped
beneath the peat,
and to your destiny-
there was no helping hand-
no layered touch to protect you-
no conclusion that can be solidified-
merely assumptions,
known only to you-
the only certainty is the darkness of your
liquid crypt-
the stillness of the ebony deep-
and the echo of your final seconds
reflecting off the mouths of those who
cast you into eternity-
your lonely voice-
pinging off the sides of your grave like
sonar-
a dream that roamed like a vagabond
in search of himself-
a dream that wafted on the soul of
time and refused to die-
fused with our brainwaves like a stubborn
thorn-
a layered touch that refuses to decay-
in a room so quiet that yours is the only
voice that can be heard*

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