Illusion is found in the most obvious of places It's how our mind is sketched to the concrete conclusion That its chaos is dark Gloomy and freakishly lonely A world that is dreaded to be explored In the wake of night
Although it is the only destination available for travel To reach the waiting hand of slumber and dreams Dear Self, the artistry of the stream lines of thoughts Are scattered like a museum so big Cosmos themselves scorn in envy
The vast beauty of memories paint our experiences In colourful attire, some brighter than others In show-off allure and vibrancy in abundance You see... those ones hold the pedestal of desire
We've dragged those with depths of deep colour Inked them with rudimentary titles and Perspectives that stay afloat on the surface
Dear Self, the conclusion should be That your mind is a Runway of fierce art Tailor made for the figure of your character That struts in confidence and power
So, fellow mate The journey to the waiting hand of slumber and dreams Has always been first class certified When you admire your art through the eye of adoration For how far you've come
— Nanda Regine
From "Inside Her Roses"
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