My bed is the garden where voices all meet
Hands skim through the water beneath my pillow
Stones like rain wash away the hours
The hands on my clock, s__, wilted flowers

Silent Thunder pries me to sleep
Falling the edge so steep

And if my eyes shy from the morning
My lips will taste of unripened fruit
Words without a language call from the past
The future was the day before the last

Silent Thunder pries me to sleep
Falling the edge so steep

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