A Search 

Writing poetry
Is like a journey
Where I always never
And ever reach
My destination

Alone
I try to persue
A blurred dream
Up the sky
Held by a fountain
Atop a misty mountain
With a style

Only to discover
That in the dead of the night
Dreaming becomes living
But with daylight in sight
Living turns to be dreaming...

And I go o­n searching
In the paths of my conscience
That thing I would like
For my dear delight.

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