There is a bird in these lines.
a thaw in the thought,
and imagination flies in a flock,
when night awakes,
light yawns and goes to sleep.
But how do I wish you in the New Year
if I remain here?
Grass mowed by a whirring mind’s eye;
compare the freshly scratched humus,
to a perfect garden etched within us,
where tall flowers wave in the cobalt sky.
Rhyme and reason can’t speak much, in a world beset with revolutions.
this is a world based on imagined
dates, a world that solely
survives on the fear of its unmaking,
The IHM Chronicles Series
On My Nightstand
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