dreams #3

an exhausted time,
a few forgotten sunbeams
mounting on shabby shelves
of your dilapidated mind.

developing must
they lay in the dust
next to a porcelain doll,
in porcelain reverie.

a red lock,
with a scent of a vintage perfume
casting a spell and imprisoning you
in this callous shell
of her never-ending
dream.

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