The dream is made of moments felt,
and vision’s sought imaginings;
to walk out on a summer beach
with love, and kisses, even rings —
For there is little life gives sure,
save this: that moments evanescence,
and dreams are all we really have
to guide us, till we find real love
I guess
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Tagged: Tags Poetry
Published by Beleaguered Servant
Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.
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