ronin_46

wasteland
a. scott samson

Somewhere dreams go to die.
Somewhere they flicker their last.
Somewhere Dreams go and mix together before dying.

In this wasteland of the concious
In this wasteland of of the day
In this dreamless torture
we mourn our dying dreams

Somewhere dreams are dying
dancing round the pyre
somewhere dreams are laughing and screaming and breathing their last . . .

I want to go there because it sounds like paradise

I want to leave this wasteland
I want to be where my dreams dance afire . . .






A poem for the weekend