I stood watching him on the ground
To whom this world
Is a magnum opus of his own imagination
Twisting, turning
Murmuring, smiling
Dead to the world
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Alive within himself
What is going on inside him?
What is he dreaming about?
Myriad colours
Washed over patterns and figures
Or dreams of slowly succumbing to a life
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Torn between cacophony and silence
What is going on inside him?
What is he dreaming about?
I probably will never get to know
Because I never waited for him to get up.
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