* * *
The moonlit shore of the sun,
a promenade of hallucinations
with the night tides
and the tides of loneliness,
where in the arms
with frightened insomnia
we wander through the labyrinths
of memories
with those without whom
we are no longer in the past,
or future life.
Everything is majestic
and meaningless
like a house bent over
under the weight of old age.
Something must have broken
in the script of our
of our imagination.
There comes a time when everything loses
meaning.
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