The Somnambulist

It is just past 3 am on this deserted seashore
ghosts of winters past circle empty vessels, darker streets
they define my wanting to be here, this righteous need for confusion
and vicarious oplympianism.
This is the hunger that knows no end
for it feeds on long-lost affection.

This is a hunger born out of insults and randomness
craving understanding, high on the absence of scorn.
I vaguely remember the healing touch,
once more performed a while ago on an absent body,
a carrier of extreme History, made stronger by its scars
yet somehow faded into ether.

It is just past 3 am on this deserted seashore
Street signs read as roadmaps for change
Yet this hunger weaves stillness
in the shape of abysses, spirals, cathedrals.
A dull grey spreads, cinematic, molasses-like
the heart hibernates, soul prodding through.

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