Morning Of The 27th

Shapes, often tend towards/only a rendering of themselves,/in your moods, in your darkness,/I can find ease/In the stars I see faintly/past the minaret and the dome/where half the shadow is satyr/the other half odd about their God/the only one worshipped/because it’s older, and so naive/it’s the root of its rudeness,/it finds in figures of speech/the remarks of its brightness./But no, there’s only the skies./ ever playful each morning,/only sky, but it’s frozen,/it loves to take issue/with what’s already there,/it takes liberties with virtue /i plants makeshift graves/next to the windows it owns/they reveal auras of fire/from the weight of remorse/they stretch out their arms/when they borrow your matches.


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