The banks of dark clouds
still drift from the peak.
And the pity of things
still haunt some of my dreams.
Sniping from time-to-time
from the cold morning sky.

But I am still able to write my
words that echo in the quiet night.
Listening to the few souls –
with whom I can exchange
intimate whispers.
And the ins and outs
of a serene breath.

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