Tired dreams

Floating bubbles and flickering candles
line up the twilight sky.

I hang on to a tired dream
that is still trying to fly.

Raindrops dance to their death
on grimy neon slapped sidewalks

and suicidal stars leap to theirs
on crumbling rain beaten rooftops.

With groggy 3am eyes craving coffee shots
we observe a funeral for the stars

and applaud an artist furiously smearing
dead stars on the black canvas.

We learn that auroras are but
a masterpiece born of a funeral,

remnants of dead stars we wish upon

on nights our tired dreams wish to fly. 

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