and laughter with the same intent as rain
smouldered by the corner where the
girl was perched.
it was crisp lunacy bathed on the frost of the
dwarf morning, with heart-shells
and pastures of coffee
linked by the death of sleep.
i was howling by the forward cut
of time, with the earnest crass
decision to live bouncing
like ice sculptures between me
and the sun. i was in that howled dance
of ghost chirp, molten and featherless
against the brash tongue of age,
when you came and clipped
the she from idle expectations.
though, somewhere, faster than
a cannonball...a bullet dreams
for freedom.
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