Photograph by Zoltan Tasi from Unsplash
The Death of a Dream
My dreams have been eulogised in sad prose.
Wisps of smoke emblazoning the crimson sky;
never returning these stars to my eyes.
This mercurial art of mine sunken and despaired.
Truths of my craft now bathed in shadow.
Youthful dreams age not like fine wine;
a rosebud aroma doomed forever by time.
My soul canvased by lies and dust.
This wisteria will grow over my bare skin.
Vast cliffsides to swallow a calamitous grief;
eroding this lakeside sepulchre for eternal sleep.
Dream not of dreams that have been.
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About the Creator
Jordi M
Creative Writing graduate, specialising in film, politics, and gender and sexuality studies.
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