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Not To Be

silence is the gold you see

on your eyelids’ backside,

defiantly, closed like curtains

with a spotlight’s sheen.

take a bow for indolence

behind the scenes, forget

to rise and remain slumped —

not to dream — but to concede,

sleep-per-chance ratio being

nothing, nothing.


a faded black, your destiny,

like shade beneath a concrete wall

boasting silent graffiti.

the sole sound heard — a ceiling

fan’s scream of dark vortextual pine,

yet from the blackness springs a seed.


in the drone i dreamed

of rock and reef with

10,000 seagulls who’d

yet to meet and an

ocean silenced tangibly

by their squawk.



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