Someone tethered the moon to a harbor of disappointment.

Someone offered rain to dilute the argument of sleep.

Staying on course to sun-fall required the bravery of warriors who don’t believe in war.

The day betrayed with a weariness of children up too late who can’t sleep.

Tell the neurosurgeon you want wings.

Dinner, an act of kindness on the floor of imagination’s wind-fall.

None of this useful except for the redemption of clocks.

Meaning took its suitcase to a strange waiting room.

Someone said you should decorate doubt with composure.

That the moon would return its light on a silver plate of promise.

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