Silent nights laying waste to a parade of sorrow
Line the edges of my tattered heart,
Gripping the handlebars
And siding with the paperweight keeping me grounded.
They say dreams aren't meant for reality,
But I refuse to believe the frigid whisper beating
Out of the rough breath
Escaping from your lungs.
Your heart becomes cold and hard
When dreams don't flourish,
Blooming in the desert.