I've watched the willful hand of time write slowly:
sketches on the ridge between the creases of the waking mind.
I saw the vestige hunger ghostlike rising;
then fall! I lapped the splattered whispers left behind.
And while the pen at times was pressing harder;
And while the painful ink of Hespera's tears was no surprise,
I hid within the sore of open spaces
and watched
the dying dreaming dreams of life in my disguise.
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