It was nothing but a juvenile dream,
Its concept was merely lost in those fake days.
Crashing the entire soul and its self-esteem.
Still, passion of the immortal art held eternal grace
While the white smoke cleansed the signing air;
All polluted with fine roses and unaging desires.
My foes and allies amused themselves with one last affair
In which they twirled and perned their hopes in the gyres.
I smoked and burned the final cigarettes of time
To write the early words of my rapture.
Transformed them to my throes, while still hit the chime.
I was mistaken when my dreams I desired to capture,
And bottle them all in my fantasy childish land.
All I wished and desired for with my tears I cried to inspire
Those lost and delirious souls that needed to take a stand,
And finally create glittering fields for the new anticipated gyre.
March 4, 2014