As close to a dream as possible...

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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