I am but a ghost of my former dream. A decapitated memory comes swaggering at me:
A predicament I resist to acknowledge, though it flows to me like moon rays through a foggy window. A question? Several questions. I ask more than I should? I ask because I have a voice.
A wish or a prayer. Is it heard within a stippled sky? Felt like goosebumps over poised flesh? The Almighty ones, as graceful as dancers, play out their rhythm of life but will they hear? The creators, will they take criticism, pleas, advice? Do they usurp you before they scowl at your equation?
I dare to scatter what I know and pick it up another way. I will dance the backward waltz barefoot before I walk the appointed path. Is there anything to strive for or do we merely fall back to the earth like a banyan?
Oh dear questions, how do I find your mates? Your loving companions to set your tone to firm? Manifest to me.
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