Speaking of dreams

their tenable shoots of flimsy weed sprouting immaterial brain latching to clothe terrain steamrolled by time’s train lifeless no matter what wind encourages breath again for a dream to live it must become hard and cornered more like a broom than a seed or droplet of rain more like a wary streetwalker conscious of grids burned by loss futilely whipped hopes on their own ill equipped to compete with the traffic of fears that merge the highways and tame the greater passions of men
wrestle for a shoulder’s edge to claim the surface bloom to a limit in the inviting air a concrete thing—

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