I can only speak a truth of this variety before my dream becomes the truth.
A fallacy.
Fantasy fades with the rising sun.
Curse the rays that burn the images of you from my sight.
I cling to my dream come true.
Perfection as my view.
These delusions drive my soul to pursue
You.
I pray: make it all untrue.
Beg, I do, for the hold to undo
the burn the rays create, in my soul, subdue
this never ending dejavu.