March 7

Longer nights are strangers not to parents, nor
mystics. Sages spending endless sense on clicks,
bumps and noises. Strained to hear in silence, thumping

hearts or dreams unseamed. A tense and short
snooze that’s rent by muffled twitching, whose
names we spent our deepest sleep insane,
begging silent nights to sing.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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