馃吙romises bled from the mouth of the moon,
馃吘aths carved in fog on a bone-white dune.
馃吀 drank from a chalice that mirrored my face,
馃唫in made of velvet, stitched into lace.
馃吘racles wept in the orchard of skin,
馃吔ailed to the silence that echoes within.
馃叧eath wore a crown made of whispers and glass,
馃唩eality cracked like a serpentine mass.
馃叴very mirror refused to reflect,
馃叞s shadows grew teeth and began to infect.
馃吋y soul is a house where the doors won鈥檛 align..
Where dreams drink the dreamer, in slow serpent time.
The poem is a metaphorical horror tale about the poisoning of hope and dreams, where the person himself drinks the illusion, becomes lost in himself, and is escaped by reflection and reality. In the end, it is not the dream that is consumed鈥攂ut the dreamer himself.
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