There's many a splintered

heart to be plucked

from the endless

repertoire of reverie, 

where thought-up hells

and dreamed-up heavens

might come alive, 

at least until

some rooster proves

yet again that 

it cannot lie;

so the misty realms 

simply melt, for

they were but the 

susurrus of a sorceress,

not some fruition 

of augury; better still, 

for there's rivers

that even Heraclitus 

wouldn't dare step in...