I'll pray the somnabulist's prayer
through green clay
fingers melting into a dream
that refuses release.
I seek the confinement of sleep,
the flattening of spectrums
with too many paths
decadent with promise
rusting on the vine
and the whitewash of hope
peeling to truth.
If you could offer
a small comfort
steal the stories from my eyes
with a quiet shh
of a kiss.
And sing me the song of your breath.
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