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The Sower of Dream Wax

I would be the sower of dreams,
flossing the dead with new flavors,
spreading mirage matter on abandoned
walls. Better yet as a pair of eyes
rolling in the dark, beneath the lake's
syrupy tide, stained by the pyrite gold
of floodlights; a messy voyeur
a gaze which scalps the night.

Editing stage: 


A beauty!!!!

The poem was a tad ice-cream, albeit jet black ice-cream, before that line turned it into a dangerous work.

Onya, brother.

Neopoet Directors

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