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Chris Costanza Chris Costanza
Recommendations: 6

Neon Dreams


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August 6, 1945
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soul mates

I breath Neon and dream of hope.
I long for the nights
Where dreams were not just so.


I see concrete obelisks and the feeling returns.
Can you claim to chase dreams
When you have yet to cross the start?


I shiver with Wind from the North.
The gusts are dancing, interweaving, tangling,
I welcome the chill to my bones.  


The clattering of the train
as ever present as the wind.
it matters not where they arrive,
only where they ride.


The thoughts come now
numerous as the stars,
bright, but mostly dead,
and all impossibly out of reach.


I float among the hopeful,
Drifting aimlessly across these wind-swept streets.

As bright light intrudes upon my solitude of delusion,
I feel no warmth,
none of the promised welcomes.  


Anger and distrust poison my psyche,
a plague upon my senses,
mass genocide of my brightest cognitions.


Surrounded by millions, and yet I am alone.


Good graces and affection
are easily deflected.
Their happy faces will radiate no joy
through these walls of lead.


Where none may enter,
None may leave.


I may appear to them
as a bright mark of hospitality,
Warm and Colorful.


But within my fragile glass neurons
The truth writhes.
Poison, compressed and contorted
to appear pleasing.


I may be gazed upon with amusement
But my insides are your death.


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