Burned pages

Sweet melancholic child,
You sit and write in sand,
To see the words you form,
Now washed away by time.
Each word, clawed from your soul,
Bled onto a page which no one read,
And yet you do it still, what madness,
What disease now claims your soul,
That you would keep your meter?
Within the ink there is another place,
Full of the laughter and the joy,
You keen for in your own insanity,
Seeking some truth outside reality.
There you can dance with princes fair,
Ride through deep forests, slay the beast,
Rise up triumphant in your dreams,
Record them then return again to dark.
Sweet melancholic child,
You lost the youth and vigor of your life,
Yet still with paper and with ink,
You can experience a life of sense.
Bright are the words in pages hidden,
From prying eyes and selfish hearts,
Burnt now to keep your secret hopes,
Lost to the world save in your mind.
Write on, draw words out onto the page,
Out of the mind which chains you down,
And locks you to a breaking wheel,
Destroying that spirit which used to laugh.
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