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The night is poetry
its lyricism raw with untamed darkness
dancing with its antithesis of stars.
The earth read the words aloud
as she turned on her axis.
Some of the metaphors
sent shivers down her spine,
some got caught in her hair,
and some fell like flurries of snow
at her feet, unnoticed.
Vivid images of
shadows and solitude,
fluorescence and fireflies.
She lost herself
in that mesmerizing flow,
the meter of nocturnal trains
like throbbing veins,
the rhythm that drives
those who thrive in the small hours,
the way the flesh of insomnia
rhymed with the whispering of grief
released in the sighs
of sleeping dreams,

found herself on the other side
where the handwritten lines
of lamp-lit boulevards
and the moon, the riddle-riddled
mandala of phrases only
the soul could decipher,
fade into the blank page
of a new day

the pen borrowed by the light of dawn.

“Proportrait v.151” by photographer Serj Preobrazhenski


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