You keep dreams awakened. Such memory to sleep. A den with lions. A cure for such lions. To have sung upon harp, to sooth memory shadows. To live for you, to die in patterns—so uncured and pushing diamonds. A field of debated thoughts, an acre of curses, so many landmines. The oceans of time, pour out into deserts, to trek therein, trying to make it home. A man to his ghosts; a woman to her phantoms; such allegiance—certain feelings, as to bond uneven skies. You keep dreams awakened—shadows of evening, leopards of a great loss, in adoring what might adore in return. Many fathoms in, swimming like a madman, sharks nibbling heels. Too much for immaturity; too gray for plaid; walking through a deeper dungeon, minds inverted, filled with tenacity. And coyotes watch, and dance, to encircle prey, to strike at random, certain to face it. By some miracle, sitting and wounded, scents wafting high, must go underground. Such sentiments in humankind, sworn to riddles, tugged by literature, living vicariously. So many miles, unveiling collectively, no understanding of how it would affect religiosity. Tales told, sagas released, such deep and benighted lights, a soul making years, such blackdamp wars. Encouraged against all odds, the dying 300, to perish into a legacy.
