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it is night by the gears of the watch or

the electrical signals of our newer alarms

though the sky is still blue, bright enough

maybe even to give another name besides night

maybe some other adjective for this sky

and it would stay even more brilliant if

not for these rows and rows of distracting motes of artifice

imagination drifts like wind gently swaying leaves of neatly trimmed and small trees

these bulbs become essence of the universe

as after all, they technically still are

metal and oil and rubber with seats becomes lounge

the majority of the teeming masses have succumbed to themselves and left the black and grey stone some space to give solitude amonst the still lit neon and sounds of aforementioned metallic oiled mechanisms traveling through time and space each on some mission, each leaving a wake

it seems all the metaphor reflects a truth

it would be nice to see those stars

of all the ages and all the bards

let’s open our eyes and our hearts

not get lost amongst too much of our excess

 

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