Discolored Shapes

When you look back you don't see yourself,
You see problems, smells, and feelings.
The flowers are melting and wilting,
The books are burning from the inside out.
The letters dropping one by one,
Into a pile of discolored shapes
That will never form the same words twice.
Dreamers are believers,
That's how you buy into a dream.
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Publish My Love by: Rogue Wave