The stale sleep of a yesterday,drowned in
What remained,of a morning coffee...
The tired dreams of someday,hang from
A cobweb,forgotten...
The streets walked,a while ago,lie
Bathed,in the dirt of another busy feet...
The difference within,remains in
The hands of a wall clock,accustomed...
All of it written,amidst the crowd of inexpensive pages,in
The flying letter.....
and its destination also quite uncertain..
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