Gold

Riches do find themselves wings … and … fly away
Fly away
With your dreams in hand
Reveries in pocket
They jingle like car keys
Driving you into a dizzying pace
Moths in your clothing drawers
Sliding out silky scents of past
Times are gone
To the dust
Forgotten in the closets of your mind
Can you not conceive
Give birth to dreams arising
From childish memories
Crushed to crisps
Chips of your painting
Imagination from flecks of
Golden sun
Ashes to the wind
Of Temporality.

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