All my words, stolen, flow from my veins; bleeding black ink, I fill the emptiness. I cannot write of today, of what I heard, those poisoned words. Dream, o dream, o dream: What do we dream? Lies; without a care these people plan their lies. We cannot say it, said they, we must not say what we mean. O dream, I long for you, but I wake to hear such words.
The projector’s sheet is folded, and I sit in this abandoned theatre, the darkness all around. The movie is over; I cannot dream forevermore. I’m tired of the lies.
Tale Told 