Elelu, compose your blood
Elegy. The old poems weren't
Better, but they rode deeper
So long as they shied away
From wisdom's shallow sandbars
Of advice. Like blues, they were
Like wine, heady and darker
And finally exhausting.
After reading too many,
I slept but I never dreamed.
Some say sleep's touched timelessness,
But I woke knowing I'd touched
Only nothingness, which was
Enough. Let me sleep some more.
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