with dreams of metal towers
and of static, dreams of
silver skies
and then waking up
the here and now is a fist
and so the future can only be
whatever pain comes next
i have no other truths
have only one hand that holds
and
the other that pushes away
have only scar tissue and
empty ideals and with the
music
up loud enough the sun
makes no sound at all
the baby sleeps beneath
the shadows of passing clouds
wakes up crying softly
just as the air runs out
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