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Friday, April 1, 2016

Memory


Mysteriously at night, 
Cold comes.
The covert is known by the only One that made him.
The One knows why he comes that way.

Slap, slap, flap, flap, plump.

Feather pillows and quaint quilts,
thrown by impatient hands.

Into the bed,
my intent eyes closed
and the day ahead
is what I dream.

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