A Dead Dream Drips Dung...
When the dream was in it's sweet spot nothing else mattered and nothing could be wrong, go wrong or alter wrong. But as the dream rots away and the decay begins to smell the surreal view becomes clouded and milky. It never was all that rosy but it was much better than the view through gaseous toxins and organic decay. To look at it now, the dream is ugly, macabre. The beauty wasn't anything seen but something felt like the rays of sunshine on a cold winter morning.
But dead it is and not a chance for life again. No miracle could begin here or end either. So as it rots I think I'll turn and walk away. Don't want to see it, hear it, touch it, smell it or be with it. Because that dream is a nightmare and I've lived enough of those to know they end tragically. So I'll stay away...
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