night you tumbled into
entangles in web of misted
dreams with shimmering threads
of familiarity, sinking deep inside you,
then again nature light awakes and
you are gone, pour into different lights
of lies, trickery, or at best,
half-truths, walking deaf, blind
to the heart, only riding on
the city's heartbeats.
P.S.: Are dreams, even of the nocturnal kind, the only tool keeping our insanity intact?
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