Monday, July 20, 2020


The night feels far. Day lasts long
This time of year in the hills.
Hills are dry here.

If days on the lake were near,
The glare of sun on the waves
Would shine like coins,

Wealth flesh and thoughts could dive through,
But all of those coins get lost
In the dust here,

And it’s just mind craves the count
Of all hours of nights, of days,
Of dreams, of coins.

The mind gets tricked by its counts.
Heat fades. Long nights won’t be long.
Sun’s coins make moons.

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