What is existence but the disingenuous dream of a beast?
What are you and I but particles of smoke
drifting in wisps from the nostrils of some oppressive dragon?
Randomly we float around the thick, scaly, reptilian skin
and latch on to it desperately trying not to dissipate away.
The roaring internal flame that cast us into smoky, grey existence
just as quickly fades away as the dragon awakes.
And thus our dream is no more.
Gone is the wistful smoke of life’s great illusion,
replaced with rueful, static ash.
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