Poem: The Sweeper of Dust

The weeds grow through his dreams
Their seeds infecting the dream-seeds
A fragrance once sweet now festers in the heat
Once was nourishing, now inebriating
The flourishing of life, now of Dying itself stagnating
Oh how he wishes them dead
But they linger, perpetually dying
Infinite suffering of a chronic depression
Unable to let go and make a confession
Dreams are naught but dreams
Fanciful images made of dust
The rain of reality turning the shiny into rust
He lements with agony the birth of something more
But lementing, he finds, does not cure, or kill
Perhaps faith in dreams will be a vaccine
But it is much to late for him, it would seem
For now the bottle is opened
The gulping down of spirits
Momentarily lifts his spirits
But he knows that he is merely causing rust
And like his dreams, he is turned into dust
And the Sweeper comes, to sweep it up

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