There is a dream within each word,
within each heartbeat, within each memory.
And all of that is in a single dream,
another evanescent stream of consciousness,
soon to be passing, purely into bliss.
A memory of the dream that was the heartbeat,
a broken mirror, shifting between reflections,
distancing themselves, dividing into sections.
Pieces of a puzzle, with each moving body,
we’re beginning to lose ourselves completely.
And now we’re a memory without a dream,
with a half-beating heart, half asleep.
And for some reason we can’t seem to wake up,
no matter how much splintered chaos erupts.
Because we do not know of the dream,
only that it’s a remnant of a forgotten memory.
And for that, it is lost to us—the word,
lost in translation whenever it would be heard,
because it was never listened to in the first place,
and now it would be, for the very first time.
And so, I will open my ears, and listen to your cries,
And mend the pieces back together.
And I will do this, always and forever.
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