When does the body
Become a mere shell
A puppet to duty
And trying to stay well
When the eyes have gone blind
And the grind is the soul
When the dreams have been drained
From the incomplete whole
A Poetic Dive into the Creative Unconscious
When does the body
Become a mere shell
A puppet to duty
And trying to stay well
When the eyes have gone blind
And the grind is the soul
When the dreams have been drained
From the incomplete whole
When one’s dreams have given up the ghost, there’s not much left. 🩵
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