You and I,
we listen,
well,
some days, on others
when rainbows
seem all
the same, we hide,
where our colours can
blend;
we stitch the clouds
as nature
intends, all black,
and grey as the
morning
light bends,
through the
shadows, and the rain
comes to pass.
Then you and I lie
still
and ask
all manner of
impossible things,
like diamond futures
and fairy
rings, we do not yet
have rights to own.
But we call
them dreams,
and sleep them off,
to tomorrow-year, and know,
all to the ticking of
the clock –
we have found
a place we call home.
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