Poetry, really, it’s just an exploration of the mind, this is just a cultivation record, truth and lie, they intermix, what it speaks of, both does, and doesn’t exist, it’s all about what you make of it, they’re like tarot cards, they explore what could be, but really, as you read it, filtered through your perception, say to yourself, it’s up to me, to decide the direction, how will it go, what part of it, is a piece of me, it could just be words, and it may be meaningless, it’s just life, just lost souls, wandering through space and time, it allows it, substance, makes you think, it’s something, if you were obsessed, hungry and yearning, these words, they could come alive, music would play, and we’d all be dancing, but alas, in truth, they’re closer to nothing, just a dreamer, dreaming.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.