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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required i wait at the river for the cry of the loon from below in the muck reeds grow tall there are no lips that will draw music from these clarinet dwellers i stand under the brightly lit dusk nearly motionless the moon above is glued in place nailed in to its spot holding on to a piece of the bedtime sky the little dipper reminds me of a rocking chair my favourite star shines just a little dimmer time passes does so uninvited its metronome beat replaces the soundscape of an otherwise musically crowded air a hand descends from above cuts the trapped moon down to a sliver leaving the twilight mostly blind i'm getting old still even my worn out senses are aware of the days aware of that single golden eye of its rise its set its endless loop quiet is my flow of sand stressed beyond reason my lungs want to burst my brain explode my emotions are stretched passed their limit my chest fills my chest empties the choice was has always been mine i have not lived the life i was gifted i'm frozen i'm hot like a statue baking in the unforgiving rays of Sol wide awake in the after dark with all the usual players the wolf with his cool stance dressed in a zoot suit snapping his beatnik fingers wooing the maiden night the lynx with a fluid stride plays the ground like bongo drums negotiates the air like brushes on snares a choir of flyers lend their songs there is a chasm of nurtured colours engulfing me in its rich deep tones having stood here longer then i know i inhale my time in tiny puffs i am void of the sanity i once possessed i happily dismissed that blurry concept a long time ago it is you know an overrated attribute time moves with a second hand like a plane propeller i live every moment as fully as my strength allows all the living at the river and its surrounding land add their breath to the natural air of the eventide i breathe in the chill of the nightfall air and i i wait at the river for the cry of the loon September 28 2015 armand
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