In the creaks of your movement
I exist, poking like a devil
Singing of a day, an age, an era
An hour in which, without a shame
An arcane glance, a flightless bird
A derelict wave of consequence shrugging,
Its form uncaring, wavering for a minute, an hour, a day
And my house vanishes into silver smoke
A sooty remnant in our mouths, heavy drab
In the lungs
Waiting for the day I come home
©another
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