The Sleeping Tin Man

Wake up Mr. Tin Man, will you do a dance for me
underneath the ticking sun? And one by one
its hands of rays reign down your fading glow away.
And from my vantage an immaculate imprint,
and imperfection rests only a dent,
not within your impenetrable casket,
but on the memory I store, which is now passing.
Wake up Mr. Tin Man, do a dance for me.
Paralyzed in a moment of bliss, your slumber I envy.
Memories safely trapped in a tin time capsule of dream,
limitlessly fabricate an idolizing jealousy.
The echo of your tin reflects an emptiness within.
A place where each will keep his own,
a hollowness where ours belong.
Tears in your dedication rust my dedicated memories.
Once stood a reality, now a concept of a man pristine.
Oh, Mr. Tin Man, do a dance for me!
Your oil can is now run dry, and though I try,
the memories I once had part.
Wake up mister tin man,
you fell asleep with my heart.

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