Scenic Cynic

A derailed dream seeps like sebum
Out of every pore,
With the audacity of stench
Of an 11th hour whore.
I’ve got the countenance of Dali’s work
Contorted with each stroke,
I’ve got the trusting nature of a settler
Left at Roanoke.
My own best friend, until the end,
Commiserate at length-
For deep in hull of hopelessness
Lies a sullen strength.
‘Tis not the joyous tunes
That bring solace to these ears;
Dreams are naught but lore
In the absence of my fears.
My nightmares keep me going!
Sardonic smiles galore-
Fools fear the creeping incubus;
I leave ajar the door.

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