He who imagines
She who sleeps,
Across the midnight wall,
Down through her roof
And past the ceiling
Into her head
Where she’s busy dreaming
Up a world of fantastic fiction
The mind’s own eye, her sole restriction.
She lives a life of pain each day.
A shattered doll, wasting away.
In a drape of flesh so fitting and fine
With hair in curls, and eyes so kind…
There she sees him all in black
With wings like velvet
And skin like sand,
Before she speaks, she’s in his hands.
And they’re spreading out like creeping vines
Back out across the midnight line
And as the stars are beginning to fade
Like Icarus, his wings are made
Of only wax and feathers glued
So though flying as one,
They fall as two.
The angel now crashes back down through her roof.
The goblin of course, is now drowning…
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