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Sanguine in the meadows,
he basks in memories
of good company,
resolved to reveal
a nature he knew not.

Riddled in a tale of trauma
that brings irony:
that something so simple
could unwind the tapestry
leading to his heart.
Elusive idealization—
I yearn for it,
beguiled by its seminal scope.

I dig my fingers into its flesh
as my past pulls me back in
with cold, frayed hands,
seeking to drown me
in a chamber of oblivion—
until the end of time.

Or so it seems;
as every mirage has its day,
and reality is no exception—
the construct of constructs
we all imagine at once.

Regardless of the outcome,
I will see you all again
under the ground.
The fields of gold—
Looking grave
as past faces
caught up quickly,
smothering any presence
with smoldering reminders.

Alas, the echelons of memories
stood tall, like soldiers
steadfast, unwavering
to the imminent fall.

They remind him of his reflection,
belabored by reality’s labor.
Lines buried in sand,
etched onto his head—
burning coals of souls
that throttle his legs into motion.

He runs, and runs,
coerced to send the sun
his kinetic aspirations,
to deflect and reflect,
to dissolve prophecies beleaguered.

For it is he
who devises the Devil
of his own doing.
Dustin Dean Mar 2019
Dead, I sit in the midst of dread
Dreary, amongst a precocious star
Oh, look at how it flies by
Light years from where I start

As stagnant desires dance in limbo
Enslaved to a vicarious libido
I’ve done this rain dance before
Deduced to a pointless chore

It’s true I may never know
How to crawl out of the row
A legacy of confusion
I’ve inherited from my fight
And if time is a mere illusion
Then there is no end in sight
Dustin Dean Mar 2019
A palette of every hue, tells a tale
Visions of terrestrial views, we shall fail
As a community, burdened by lust
For green, in paper, until dust

Vehicles in bloom, make the distance
No question to intentions, incentives
For a reality, structured in somethings
A mere reflection, for greater summits

In days such as this, in my mind
Shrouded in willow green, I find
Must I question, a beckoning call
Before the season’s quilt, shall fall

I am blinded, in peripheral vision
To carry on, toward no provision
For anyone, or anything in my way
Until the white light graces me
In my wake
Dustin Dean Feb 2019
Thy midnight blue sky
Of mine
She beckons me
With gleaming stars
And dreams afar

I reach for the tune
That suits me best
As choirs of angels
Watch Heaven at her crest

She gently brings me down
To Mother's slumber
Her caressing is nigh
As I relieve my sigh
To enriched thoughts
Beyond the medium
Of which we are wrought
Dustin Dean Feb 2019
I can feel you in me
Ravaging my mind
Or so you think

I've lived this a million times over
Yet I can't seem to find a better way
To acquire leisure and pleasure

All I can say is
When this is all said and done
I'll settle the score to my tune
For eons to come
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