Like a rose-coloured dream no one wants to awaken from.
Movement is feign.
Still caught in sleep’s lovely throws.
Attempting to savor dawn’s fading moments
& the fading nearness of the dream.
A dream which in hope’s frail circumstance
the heart yearns as truth.
But in the reality of the day
& its sunlight,
this rose-coloured dream
is only the soul’s inspired wish.
The night’s spell, interrupted by dawn,
broken by its sun,
never to be revisited again.
Never but in piecemeal memories,
sharp yet incomplete;
reflections in the tiny slivers of a broken mirror.
What we would give to go back.
To languor in that time
be it only a moment or an age.
Special lambent flashes
are these gifts of sleep;
is are sleeping life.
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