I’M NOT SAYING IT WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER WITH ME
You are now separated from the silver canvas
which was a portal to your dreams.
And now you are in a desolate expanse of sleepless
morning, where time blurs into endless drifting.
She once told me her love was a profound blue.
A love of complex cryptic symmetry.
A love consumed by melancholic inertia
adrift in a sea of alienation.
Do heavenly beings embrace a reckless abandon,
or does stability crumble like the commander of the sea,
or a man made mad by the sound of many furnaces
before the mountains are removed?
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