To indite this, another of those dreams, is like; to de heap,
another recollection added, wake up to nothing, I shalt.
A motion picture, it once used to be; a talkie, photo-drama,
a still image, it now is, lifeless, un-stirring and placid.

Bury thine memories, I believed, build distance over it, I could.
A pretence, being busy had been; I gave myself no time.
No control over them, lest de past haunt me, I bustled about,
liberate thee, I only could, from memories, never dreams.

De hunger for truth, blinded by, offered peace, when,
de underlying story, sought, I chose, to penetrate de veil.
Forget, absolute truth, there might not be, no rights,
no wrongs, repercussions, cleverly weaved, all along.

At peace, I feel, I am, tranquil, equanimity in sight,
on de eve of stardom, de long haul, repudiated,
tightly knot shackles, broken, my dream hacked,
out of de blue, like it’s just yesterday, my breath, knocked.

A pile of memories, at my best, I sit upon, knowing,
sort, completely reconcile, I will never will be able to.
De rose, long dead, de message deeply etched, flawed,
A little too much, I reckon, I laughed, I now shed a tear.

– De Nocturnal Poet