The man who dreams | sad poem

172When sleep comes, with him coming sometimes even the looks and the smiles of young beautiful women,
often only beautiful unknown, that give me a memory of the original tender sensuality and seduction.

Sleep.

And with sleep the dream, their eyes meet mine, unknown beautiful come to see me,
excited or exciting, light and bewitching, never vulgar and arrogant.

Adventures of short emotions.

I would always sleep and dream without having to ever awaken in the ugliness of this reality,
in this ass hole of the world, surrounded only by superficiality without emotion, and with my women only of paper.

Because after all, I’m still a man.

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