Dead Dreams.

Imagination sent to the gallows
By the force of your tongue
No quiet.
No quiet.

No daylight hour is wasted
Each little minute is consumed
No time.
No time.

The house of your babble
Never seems to sleep
No dreams.
No dreams.

My thoughts stymied
Frozen like bronzed effigies
No growth.
No growth.

Euphoric catharsis set aside
Like tea growing bitter
No drinking.
No drinking.

And love turns to loth
Like afternoon turns to night.
No dawn.
No dawn.



Любов,
Іванченко.