The Last of Us

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
What will become of us at end of broken dreams blv.

Submitted: May 21, 2017

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Submitted: May 21, 2017

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The day of the dreamer has died, the golden age dimmed and the Apple is being poisoned  back to its branches on the hill.
Whatever could I mean in proclaiming such a nightmarish rant, to strip and clean the fur of the once black cat.
I've walked the Blvd of broken dreams with bare feet in awe of the other souls I meet that legend said was scarce yet I see
I've seen the crotchet ropes and broken battle feet, heard the vacant songs of abandoned blue prints in the streets.
The empty voids of photos in prints across the pavement, some scarred on the walls like ancient stone rubbings. They bear witness to what was once living.
I've seen the land fortold, of graveyards occupied with broken brushes, quills and pens to hold on shattered canvas therein books of romantics lye in open tombs, their leaves bearing to the wind.
I see the skeletal remains of the mourners in wake of the beautiful tragedy before them,in silent flames we burn, our hearts bleeding of our passioned mediums, our brains alive to the memory of them. Some cry, some laugh in sweet insanity, others stay silent in reflection to their decaying spiritual body holding signs of daydreams that link us together only by a seam that read "will create for a dream"
Here we suffer, a paradise lost, ghosts begging pardon as our destroyers lay waist of what remains of our ruins, mocking with actions of sheltered disgust, they watch the execution of what remains of us.


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