Native illusions

Once, there was a dream seen on a Monday night…One that could have become a reality…but never did. At least till last Monday…Nights were sunny…unlike the mornings…full of roses and birds; birds that never sang a morning rhythm, bleached ones. No way this is what was meant to be…or at least he did experience late back in the stone age.

Nights slipped from his fingertip. Pause and have another thought, never ending silence entrenched in a heart-tearing sorrow . When asking many unanswerable questions, faced with the reality. It is a fantasy. A silent reality. A cruel reality. In the time that it was just a dead native illusions generated an agony throughout the years.

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