The dawn still awaits as we float in a slumber of tomorrow
Facing the darkness, the day grows bright, brighter until it cannot anymore.
While we stare at the nothingness of fleeting time, a poem awaits for its darkness to shine.
What if a poem is dead? And making it breathe, is futile.
You still blow the winds you sigh into its lifeless embodiment of dying wisp
For it to be a little dead even if dead is what it breathes.
My poems are dead. They still stare at me believing my sighs will nudge their deflated walls.
It still awaits while another day gradually faces darkness, fading for a while.
Poems never breathe. They suffocate. One breathe at a time. Awaiting your sighs into their arid diaphragm and you feel you are wanted.
You cling on for a while until you can no more.
Beneath the abyss awaits.
Staring. Starving. But mostly barren with silent stories of dried blood.
Fossilized one layer at a time before the nascent Era finds any poem worth a tell
There you let go off your last finger on the cliff.
Gravitating into the free fall of history, breathing only to breathe no more at the end.
There awaits your poem.
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