Love is a trick,
That often causes in the heart; a prick
A wound there bleeds silently,
Fated never to heal.
Dreams are illusions,
Slowly drawing the reality to its death,
While the curtains of the day close
Over a barren heath.
Fame is a fickle friend,
It finds new takers.
With every passing trend.
Leaving the previos owner.
In the shadow of the obsolete...
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