TWILIGHT OF THE DREAMER
In the pale hush of the white nights,
the city breathes like a half-forgotten song.
Loneliness drifts through empty streets,
yet the heart clings to a fragile hopeâ
that even a fleeting embrace can outshine eternity.
But within another chamber,
a body bends into grotesque silence.
The world recoils from its strangeness,
and love, once imagined as salvation,
becomes a mirror of rejection.
The dreamer and the insect share a truth:
to be human is to ache for connection,
to stretch toward warmth even as the world
turns its gaze away,
leaving shadows where tenderness once lived.
Yet sorrow is not without light.
For in the brief touch of a hand,
or the memory of a night unbroken,
there lies resistance against despairâ
a reminder that even in transformation,
the soul still longs to be seen.
And so, between night and shell,
between dream and exile,
the heart whispers:
to love, even once,
is to remain human forever.
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