Strange Dreams

Strange Dreams short poem

Rose petals, dried leaves and wet earth
wet bark of the trees, a dripping lamp post
a man huddled in a trench coat
sitting on a bench, a cold bench
his boots soggy, his eyes damp
clutched in his hands
a bunch of fresh flowers
lips mumbling something
a faint tremor in his voice

at a distance they mourn
all dressed in black
and he watches
the death of his dreams
strange are dreams

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Zyborg

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Nothing enthralls me anymore, Nothing surprises me anymore, I know not the depth of my own soul, nothing allures me anymore..............
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