In the cauldron of dusk the dark artist from the abyss hurried to the bluish black canvas up above and studded stars all over it with wax from the honey bees shimmering all night along aspiring poets and utopians. The morning light shone over this spell and vanquished all dreams and substituted it with the ground where all the night stars fell and morphed into reality.
The artist awaits in the tavern spinning spells in his mind that the sun could not erase.
I woke up today and wished the dream had never ended, would have chosen to die forever to get lost in that dream. How many smiles have the dry hay of days given you than the cool dew on the night grass.
