“Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.” – Langston Hughes


The ebbs and the flows
create an undertow in your soul,
pulling you farther
and further out.

Your chest fills
with thrills,
your skin chills
with pills.

Soft slumber
never interrupted,
never corrupted
by the assonance
and resonance
of antiquation.

The ebbs and flows
create a rhythm in your schism
pulling you further
and farther in.

The blades of grass cry
as the shiver
in the morning sun.

The morning sun
makes you shiver
as you rise from your slumber.

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