rain patters
splatters
smatters
on the dreams of yesterday
inside my sleepy head
resting on this pillow of sorrow
the dreams are of a moving picture
like in films taking place in age old English castles
made of stony, ivy covered retaining walls
keeping secrets of children
but children do not reside here
they never have
and they never will
but the dreams are those belonging to children
they always have been
and they always will be
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