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waking the dead



twilight falls,
liquid violet, a shroud of irises; blank,
like your eyes in death.

the sky cries
and the quiet of bones
is buried beneath the thunder,
an exile of serenity.

i am you in the days before--
frantic with insomnia,
sleep stolen by my own ghost,
ash and dust on my eyelashes,
abandoning reality.

so let it rain.
if i can bless every drop
perhaps one delicate globe
will seep through earth and metal
and find a way
to wake you.



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