Empty Bed

Sipping from the cup of morning dew,
vogels pick at my desolate thoughts.
'Tis true to leap unto
candles flickering secrets
of the night.
Thumping, beating
it grows then fades quick
like the tortuous
beam of the early morning.
Reminds me of the acceding
crack of the pavement
and pitter patter on the 'cill.
So sweet, yet so haunting.
It spins. Sewing, swarming
up my spine-less self-centered youth
and grazes the olive sand I call my layer.
The dunes of my country
cast out their erect soldiers
just long enough
to fill my passion.
Sliding in and out of my fingers
gently taking my heart
pounding to the sound of silence.

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