He chooses to dream, to grasp
the luminosity of prospect;
His perpetual reveries prevail over
Our world’s plodding decay.
His quests of blithe and mirth
Form the stars we wish upon.
What, without the child’s hope,
the child’s vision, is life?
Only the abandoned civilization
with the Grays and Shadows,
Entrusting little room in lieu of obscurity.
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i added you.
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Have you ever tried your hand at prose? I have a feeling you'd be awesome at that, too. ;)
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you wordy wizard
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