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Like morning's, broken wishes

wake us from our dreams

where sidewalk superstitions

relieve the need to free

fixed in captive pauses

from a crooked dorsal fin

but, pillow thoughts deflect this

Utopic* dream we're in.

Hope is not a rain drop

A flood can't wash away

the prints of lost desire

down rivers in one day

the lobby is a mattress

in a dark & vacant home

where mornings never take us

from our idealistic thrones.

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