[4w]

Oh God, it would be great, wouldn't it?
These were your words, not mine.
Sweet poet, speak to me again,
I ache for your words.
Mine are redundant, recycled, rehashed, and replayed.
I ache for you, I ache for the sound you made, in your throat,
As I ****** your finger, and tickled the tip with my tongue.
Sweet poet, speak to me again,
Offer me that finger, and everything you have,
Offer it all to me,
Please, please, please.

I think a dream
is more certain than life.
For when can I deem
life to really be true?

When in a dream
do I question its surety?
When does it seem
as if it is not real?

Dwelling in life
I am never so sure;
When I'm faced with strife
I ponder:  Is this real?

So how can I tell
which one is the dream?
Which is the spell
and which one is real?

In the end I remain
with a great sense of doubt,
no way to obtain
a reality.