215 – Just this

Sand castles
Washed away
By the rising tide
Of morning dreams.

Their tiny towers
Set adrift
Upon a sea
Of yawning waves.

With a spoon
Or a fork,
What difference
Does it make?

Force fed reality,
No matter
How well seasoned,
Is always bitter.

No tears
Are ever shed
For broken dreams
And deceased nightmares.

Their wailing ghosts
Scream into our ears
A single word.


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