A distant pulse rate, quickening by every mile
hangs its fiery heart in the distant horizon,
no larger than the spec on the pane.
Upon the edge of the Earth,
only the intangible web of dreams
exists, hovering beneath my feet.
An optical illusion that transforms
those soft dreams into a promising tsunami
bathes my glassy eyes with its blood.
As the pulse slows and its organ reposes to a more lively beat elsewhere,
the dreams whisp away with the now bloodless tsunami,
and only the bright islands of fireflies, red and gold,
illuminate the surrounding emerald seas,
and continue my foolish fantasy.
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