It is not a sound I know I really hear, except in my head,
as I lay down in bed, home or abroad, haunting me the way marly's chains did
old man Scrooge, not because I will carry the weight of it, but because I
cannot, the dream of a dreamer I here moaning and groaning and I'm not its
cause,
I do this to myself,
of course, having no cause to blame her, I insist on dreaming what I dream,
hear what I think I hear, wish I am the one causing it, reacting to it as if I
am, the slow, steady beat of it that is not my heart, only the echo of wishes
tumbling around inside me from head to toes, exasperated by what I want rather
than what is, and how it would all resound if it was for real it
is not a sound I hear
for real yet feel it just the same, clutching myself as I embrace I ache, if
that is even possible, when it is not, the sound coming again and again and all
I can hope to do is hold on, keeping a firm grip on my reality until it all
passes and I can step off into new dreams
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