large words scrawled on big walls,
big syllables to loud rapid waters,
rivers had nothing on our force;
seasons could come and go as surely.
Now, we scrawl tiny sentences
on little sheets of paper
then fall asleep, alone,
with them all around us like pebbles.
On the floor
between the sheets
underneath the pillows
upon which we sleep
and dream, and dream,
and dream.
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