burnt fingers of yours
try so hard not to singe again
though i am no burning flame
hot wax can be painful
especially if not careful, your touch
dreams are made of nightmares
you have seen so many times
that you don’t get scared anymore
of the horror you think you can control
life ambles by way too soon, and you realise
the glass is not filled with wine
the wicker rocking chair has lost its rock
the book your read is read before
and, the hand you hold is a memory that still clings
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