a hollow shell

of tangled synapses

sparked into gradual madness

which drowns out the truths of the day

as the mind reeks of the rotten sad moments

that swirl in the rancid soup of forgotten dreams

dreams that once traced a gentle path of innocence

dreams that reached for pure love’s tender touch

dreams now paralysed but once vivaciously alive

what became of those fresh dreams and hopes

as they lie mustily on dusty bookshelves

torn into shreds by time’s fine scimitar

devoid of the touch of raw passion

when all that remains of love is

a hollow shell

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