Shape
The late-night seems like a stagnant moment,
Back - counting of those imaginary sheep
Lots of idle moments to contemplate,
Ample time to think about long-forgotten sleep
Second, minute and hour passes by,
Without defining anything else
But a creaking noise
That creaking noise
Seems far better,
Far safer
than a nightmare
Of an old, wise tortoise.
The wind blows strong,
Shakes those long, slender palm trees
Random thought comes but does not
Help shape the lost thread of
LIFE. LIVING. LINGERING
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