Poem: Nightly Spirit

 

spirit 300

Tickle my ear at three in the morning
Brush the bottom of my foot with mist

See the dreams I carry that do not rhyme
Remember the fallen that rest in the corner of the eye
A phase-shift out of reach, stuck in the web of mind

Take the tack off the desk
Move the keys under the couch
Roll the pencil out of reach

But never talk to me as one who is dead,
My breath’s Bank of Days still holds cash

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