Hidden Dreams

Who sleeps at night?
No one is sleeping
what was the dream – which you hid beneath your blanket?

My obscure adolescence I should award you all
then maybe nothing, beneath a fist of fallen trinkets.
I could rhyme you days of systematic landscapes
in words of risk-free poetry –
But you know me well, for it is not, within my margins
that here I shall stay.

You might think; and who am I to decline your view
that in knowing me –
you will come to recognise yourself.
Who can say outside that mockingbird
who sits to mimic:
your disused dazzling laughter.

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