Twenty golden petals fall,
twenty tears of angels will,
captivating harp sounds
clarinet with the mystical to the beat,
and suddenly a door opens,
's time to go to land ,
to find an angel more. With him died a dreamer,
wanted the world to change,
a book in the palm of your hand,
a feather on your heart.
"Poor deluded writers "
was the last I wrote, unedited words took to his grave,
and get nothing,
traveled anywhere.
grew Dreaming, and dreaming died.
"Poor deluded writers "
thinking he died.
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