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We sketched our dreams
Under bespangled twilights.
We hurled crimson lanterns
That lit up vanilla night skies.
We stole nightingale voices
To greet the break of dawn.
We launched paper sailboats
And ignited the morning sun.
We sacked the spring meadow
On the most glorious noons.
We ravaged a thousand lilacs
And looted the fragrant blooms.
We ruled an army of livestock
With golden crowns of hay.
We felt like kings and queens
On those spontaneous days.
Not knowing that our summer
Would end too soon.
Now we're searching for Utopia
Under these city skylines.
While riding restless elevators
And running out of time.
Something we all once had
Quite a lot on our hands.
But we forgot our royal origins
Now our empire is gone.
 Mar 2018 Skye Marshmallow
Sam
He had nothing but pain in his heart
Misdirected dreams left him burdened by agony
Grief wove him a sweater
Stitched with sorrows and remorse
For the dark inside of him
Each day grew worse and worse

Tears laced with silver
Fed each pillow case
The labyrinth of his mind
An unforgiving place

In solitude he wept
Unable to escape
In solitude he wept
Unable to be saved
I would like
to believe that all writers
know this feeling,
the one you get when you're in
the zone
and the words flow naturally
and you're in tune
with the universe
and the vibrations
of your soul
reach out into the
infinite
and come back with the
forces of creation
and we become the shapers of
worlds and words
and that
sort of power
is intoxicating
and that sort of buzz
is what keeps us coming
back to our
infinitely unwritten
universes
My thoughts flow, words
My dreams come and go, script delay
My hands touch, hoping they stay
Letters curve so slightly, sensual
Serifs barely touch, hesitate
Testing the boundaries of space, flirting
Lyrics weave my tousled hair, joining sound waves  
Make their way in, touching me
Coursing alongside my thin veins, pressure
Fall swiftly down my arteries, suggestively flood my soul
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