In winter wounds, the shudder sleeps, the magpie flaps its wings,
The seed is blown, out of control and the hummingbird sketched in ink,
He dreams a world of time absurd, where burnt days can rest in peace,
A song he sang, they sing today, the troublesome fears of yesterday,
Lay somnambulant in their wake. 

He dreams a dream of dreams and days, the daze, a haze, a glimpse of what decays,
The sounds he sang, with strong symphonies strung, slept darkly, corroded peace.

He dreams, they say, all night, all day, a  cacophonous leak of ash,
The seed he spoke, and thus he woke, to find the world had turned to black,
But with a light, black was all but nil, a pin prick in the cotton chest, a black heart laid to wilt.

But sweet he found, the shadow grown, the bleakness of his heart,
Was the world of bliss, dreamt by night, by day, the contrast of his worlds, apart. 

The End

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