Of Years Trying to Clean Slates

I think today, that I've woken up from some dream,
and it would seem that that which once was power,
is now the sour remains of fantasy gone dry,
realizing that i really can't fly.

i concentrate, though the memory fades,
(as i wade into a less bleary-eyed state)
on the ornate tapestry of freindship we made
which is now dull and frayed

if we all had one mind you'd see
how sorry I am for the pain of our Socratic mode of artistry,
and my own irrationality
and you'd know that i loved you

But your minds are your own
which is to say, that all is thrown to the wind
because the ground on which we've been building these years
has gradually eroded with our tears,
(that is you'll never really forgive the hate)
and our towers of majesty lie prone to the whims of fate

and since such is the case
i must say good-bye
and tell you that the friend you knew has died.

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