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I lay awake
and in my slumber deep
of moonlight green
and pink ravines.
I starve away
but my soul feasts
on dreams of meadows
and blooms of spring.
I pine away with thirst
yet my eyes drink vehemently
the scene affronting me.
That beggars can’t be choosers
but what of those who never choose to beg
not for shelter
nor food or goods.
They are of misfortune
dark and deep
with souls more bruised
than the cores of plum.
What of them who cannot dream
feeling misfortune press on them
while I wake in slumber
and feast on dreams.