He concedes his feelings of yesterday. Stealing time for congealing real dream. The Dreamer is trapped by his own schemes. Preened in the sand. Beaming ecstasy sunshine.
“I’se striding the night divine,” is the last thing he says, “with moonlight homicide. Hiding in the sides, lines, and paradigms,
playing the fated caged against their prison gates."
Braying wasted on just a taste of sedation.
He did not see for all the caution,
and went crumbling asunder
with machine guns