I would tell you a different story
Behind why nights became my days .
Concealed behind the beauty of it I create my poetry with
Are futile attempts or ravings or restlessness or desperation or craving
Or all
To brace up stuff .

Stuff that never sticks together ,
Stuff that asks too many questions to silence
Stuff that cease their own shadow .

So I juxtapose them
So that atleast one of them
Breath air , if not life ,
The next morning .

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