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Dreams are a fistful of glowing embers

burning the fate-lines on my palm;

I hold them dear

not to let them die of cold-

 

shoulders meant to rest a head

full of bruised imaginations,

carry coffins of hopes, 

 

fallen from a sky replete

with rollicking stars.

 

And the moon that swelled with pride

every night we conversed

 

seems to have suffered a memory loss

as it stares me blank,

its countenance oddly pale.

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