It was my impression, hours were bending
infinite years of waiting and mind stalling,
a ship of our escaping, deft sailors calling,
time was becoming hard and never ending.
Upon the ship were only shadows of souls,
and as the dusk slow, subscribed to night,
it was three of us in tulips of smoked light,
'n' seven sailor ghosts in charades sprawls.
They danced and danced the nights after,
mimicking umpteen concepts, as each word,
was one more riddle upon our mind board,
- ghosts jumped with their crazy laughter.
and we danced with them, under the rain;
foolish marionettes of a black ship hustle;
rotated, around a conceived infinite axle;
the dark ship wanted us to wind and feign.
Across the shore, were scattered lights,
blinking like to expend, desolated flames,
with this dance eluding us to child games,
and the windy memories of Sunday kites.
We flied up to reach a happiness where,
the stars were smiling to a careless void,
and none recalled his one life destroyed,
and none recalled our ship dance of ne'er.
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