I had dreamed
maybe I was living a fantasy
running from tomorrow
shadows always catch up.
Who would understand
snow in the summer?
I can never find warmth.
Love buried
within that deep white blanket
too vast to escape,
Despair, her name.
She spoke
high regard
for her mother,
Misery.
Longing, her father
distant, but
no denying the relation.
Never wake me
my coma is bliss,
to wake
I would know
Longing and
Misery,
parents to
my apparent,
Despair.
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