Writer's Dream


To whom do I owe this occasion?

Its songs of harmony,

Its purity,

Its grace,

an outstanding capacity.



See beyond the colors,

masks worn disguise us,

truth dashes above,

a catch we both deserve,

needless, we recite the colors.


A sounding doorbell,

a clean shovel,

a faint-hearted deed,

a deafening scream,

a brutal sin.

Lone nights

Long hours lone nights,

the sudden pleas,

evokes his peace.


He whisks his piece,

inked and quilled,

far from neat,

his face dims.


Surging in the biting cold,

tales were told,

none were lords.


The search for gold,

their faith on hold,

so white so frost,

the living froze.


Sons of sons,

desolate and lost,

honour, a mocking ghost.


Dancing in the loud spats,

a decisive thought.

A great need for a stunt,

an applause bought.


The successive pierce,

the smoky snout,

a reminder to kneel,

If all goes afloat.

End of a fairytale.

Clenching fists and treacherous stones,

cheerless rants with flaming insults,

the trail of loveless days,

a bleak tomorrow awaits us.


What was it?

Gibberish and meek,

quick to perceive,

all in a stint.


Who was it?

Puffing and riling,

playful and witty,

taunting thy spirit.


The lad’s belief,

the colored wheels of fortune,

the moon take off.

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