Of houses on a cliffside,
where the ocean screams and reaches,
and you feel powerful because you know
what it's like to crash and disappear.
Of a 900-pund ant with glass eyes,
soft and perpetual and sweet like
honey-colored hair and,
Of gardens made of
bleeding hearts and roses,
that my father never could grow.
and Dark Violets for Grandfather
and a swing that's hung by chains
Of treasure maps and wanderlust
and chance meetings and
sailing, ever sailing, towards nowhere,
but the sunrise we will never reach.
And I am made of dreams,
And like all dreams,
They're made of you.
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