The Boy Made of Torn Gold Paper

I dreamt of a boy made of torn gold paper. And the boy that he loved.
Or maybe the boy that loved him. And a girl. That maybe I loved. Of
friendship. Of betrayal. Of the cruelty and ignorance of authority. I
dreamt of poetry and the absolutness of adolescence. I was once a
poet. I was once a great sight reader. This morning before I awoke I
was both again.