A world composed of stars 
might be beautiful,
but would fade each day at dawn

A universe made of music, 
might sound divine,  but what remains
when the orchestra retires,  it's instruments mute?

Dreams created by a writer 
fill pages; fill books
yet evaporate when the last word is read 

A world composed only of you
excludes reality, precludes logic
allows room for a single admirer

How fortunate that it is so  

thank you Emily Dickinson

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