Next Sleep (3)

How Strange it is that one can have a thought about another and never reach those ears.

Every word, lyric, poem that does not escape the mouth, dies in the mind.

Such a thing as a worthless thought? Or all thoughts unshared worthless.

A simple “I love you” remebered forever by the one you shared it with,

a word kept in permanence by the ink of the pen,

but what happens to those thougts left to our nuerological prison,

left solely to thyself .

What proof does an idea’s emotional exisitance have,

without  the definate space shaken by its waves.

To think of beauty, to think of love,

simply nothingness unless given life.

Like the remarkable dream forgotten by next sleep.

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