Sleep Alone

Alone — Awake — Again


The lapis lazuli

dungeon dome of the morning sky

Brings cirrus streaks

on teary eyes

Without a kiss



Like an adolescent who learns a sesquipedalian word and attempts to  shoehorn it in every sesquipedalian sentence, the feeling, like the words to articulate it sufficiently engulfs everything. It is repeated until it becomes meaningless. This happens until it is hourly, invisible and inaudible like the bell bongs of the clock tower he weeps under in the church yard where they drank fruity Spanish wine in red glasses.

The black pebbled mass of the crows perched on the crenulations 20 feet above indifferently survey the 12th century graveyard and the curvature beyond. Almost hawkish. Almost dead.


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