What Are Dreams Made Of? (#2)

What are dreams made of?

The canvas was now up,
With some scribblings,
Some black and white on it,
He wondered, whether to scrap it;

The secret whispers of the guitar,
Lay rusted with the instrument,
Melancholy surrounded the music it wanted to sing,
Going circles without rings;

With responsibilities over passion, he had already decided,
forget the canvas and the herbs were long gone,
only to reside in the memory of his taste buds,
The words still disturbed him,
He questioned, “What are dreams made of?”

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