We drift where the clocks have no hands,
Through oceans of violet sand.
A feather descends on the breeze,
And blossoms in ancient, tall trees.
The stars are but whispers of light,
That dance on the edge of the night.
You reach for a face in the fog,
But wake with a start, in the bog.
And what was the truth that you sought?
A memory, quickly forgot.
A shimmering bridge made of glass,
That shatters before you can pass.
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