Ails

In their spacy dreams,
Lie fragments of me to be,
Analyzed and deemed,
A devil freed.

Chunks of brain remain,
Between cracks of teeth,
Inane,
The juice it seeps.

But to know that reality is true,
I am but no dream, but merely inside of you,
Your mind, your heart, your soul,
I am the piece that remains cold,
You cannot leave me,
Or not, whether you believe me.

Mind games to which my moves are made,
Blind moves to which my games are played,
From intuition my hands are guided,
The fate of our existence is never decided.

I rest with feet aloft,
You scream, you scream, your screams are soft,
Forming the clouds from which I lay,
Built upon lumps of beautiful dismay,

Tomorrow will be a blackened rise,
Which really should come to no surprise,
I am the hole in your structure,
That expands, expands, expands, and ruptures,
My tendencies do not fail me,
Justice to my needs defeating the wants that ail me.

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