Morning begin
with the anticipated surprise
of daily deaths
Afternoon a stroll
to an ocean without a shore
where broken boats of hope
row away in little ripples
With dusk
the drunken poets came
Afflicted by a strange epidemic of optimism
Brought forth by bouts of nostalgia
When the insipid evening arrived
like a hermit with vows of poverty
I find insomniac soul
gazing wistfully at the end
of a graceful coil of a twisted rope
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