Counterfeit Dreams of Transparency

There are sacred brocks in the evening
Cherished as the morning brush
Sacred like a stone’s smooth tones
Nothing left to store
There are no memories for the night
That weaves past the serenity fever
Like a doll made for playtime
Like a doctor made to cover
Something must be calculated
Mortified and congregated
Before the witness heir has time
To discover his own past
Like a morning dream
Of weeds and counterfeit skills