An argument with existence

From night’s innocent corner.
A sky of sleeping moon
and sleeping magpies.
There is no reason
for you to hide.
Each sorrow, a goddess
guarding the city.
No longer overdosed and numb.
But youthful ears
inebriated with the rhythm
of Emily Dickinson.
Now seduced,
and turned to Bukowski.
Don’t walk away, in silence.
The muses are all dead.
Now is your time,
to cast the golden crown.

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