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Dreams die everyday and then are woken

by loss, oh, hopeful loss- the only friend
of late-night dreamers with eyes unbroken
by the pain of fear, the impulse to bend:
The dancefloors empty as dancers grow up,
leaving a pool of passion's sweat behind
for childish souls to s(l)ip on and throw up,
disgusted by their own lithe and svelte minds:
I understand that there is much pressure
to put the joy behind that (ideally)
marked our youth's first steps beyond the measure
of the madness of mankind. (Yes, really!
I do understand, and I do feel fear,
but I won't let my ritmo disappear.)
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