My heart yearns for music

It’s less has profoundly put

My ice in the kiln

And melted the device

I use for somnaptic

Dwelling. I hope to see

More than I do

In you

When the start of the remorse

Comes through with the daylight

At sunrise and eases the pronouncement

That it is dead.

I groove no more and hope

That the dead are here

In the angled form of the list

of dread I call modern



COPYRIGHT Bruce E Saunders 2020

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