The creamy dusk-chime coo of the awakened cicadas
stir the man semi-aware.
A dry lagoon of salted tears
leave his eyelids caramelized
into a frown;
Ghost limbs pitter-patter upon the canvas,
kicking up dust trying to change the noun.
Yet, it may be too late;
the demon days had come, the streets walked on smooth and blind
but on he stumbled, an abusive rhyme.
Lighting cigarettes in hopes
to melt the skies into a plastic,
a pitiful revolution for the
simple need to imagine.
He used to say that all is fate
and the rest is simply for his pen to chase but now,
Even if the rhymes become silent as he studders to speak,
this cicada coo will always remind him of the pitter-pat of ink.
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