Hexadecimal Sunrise

The fleet; as lights spin out,
My failure as; disposable sequence
Begins again the trumpet,
And the nostalgia of our
Synthetic wounds where we

Organize ourselves around
The percolation of some
Ungodly sound;

Dream in metaphor,
Tread in still water,
It’s all the same;

Swollen knees, vagabond trances,
The scourge and reverence
Of countless stars,
As one folds into the other.

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