Sovereign in dreams and wishes, hope is lavish.
Covered by the putrid grime of pride,
it prods at the heart and harkens to no end,
the winks of realism—set in stone—
are ignored for the slippery soft clouds of sorry guesses.
The ill founded hypotheses will wither and wane
while the tiny voices of chance may sing,
once the chorus is over the zealousness wears thin,
and life demands it be led again.
Ignore the fancies, fantasies only end in torture.
The looking glass has broken long ago, lost soul,
Long ago.
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