Static

Between the dark hours
and trembling cold,
There was time to count.

Count the missing dreams,
Shattered on the floor
with unforgivable clothes,

Next to demanding papers
left to incur dust’s debt,
Forgotten rather than past.

Empty cigarette packs
stand on the desk’s edge,
Unread collections for

memories, stubborn,
Hiding with intentions
that were never born.

Broken thoughts rest
after finding tender sore,
Thickening the night.

Between the dark hours
and trembling cold,
There was time to count

all things unchanged.

static

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