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We know not of dreams 'cept those taken,
forged upon sabers of white-hot steel,
laid on fine silk, our visions awaken
caresses of grandeur our senses appeal.
We dare not dream except when we're brazen,
coaxed from epiphany only we feel,
lying on dyed flax beneath us emblazoned
with lovers' last rapture, sated we reel.
We forget not dreams 'cept those forsaken,
carried forth by grief's gray steed,
plod through mires left by the rain;
galloping, carrying twin sidebags of need.
Nostrils flaring, hoofbeats of thunder,
riderless virtue clings to its mane,
tremulous sighs of regret cast asunder,
seeking it's balance, to try to maintain.
Pain leaves not easily, once we yield haven,
its constant reminders of sins we have wrought,
of longing, of loves' ill-garnered maven,
usurping the lessons of values long taught.
But dare question feelings that lie deep inside,
kept from the innocent light of sweet day,
can only ruin the most joyous of rides,
and eternal lie fallow in our fields where they lay?
I beg thee, sweet lady, on knees crippled and bent,
to follow the wellsprings which flow from your heart,
and dismount that foul carrier before youth is spent,
find that first step, from which healing will start.
And where do you look for a bird so elusive as youth?
Where is contained the secrets we save?
The answers lie close, they're held in the truth
cast only in innocence... the eyes of a babe.
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