• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 09
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It Lingers

I can see them;
the dreams of gods and men alike
hidden in the place where
wild horses roam.

I can smell them;
the words of beautiful dead things
shifting between our conscious
and our desire.

I can feel them;
the hearts of spectres,
the unborn thoughts of decaying artists,
they all say the same thing:

Live in the hours before the dawn,
when the moon is soft
and the sun has melted.

Live in the space between days,
where birds speak in
watercolor tongues.

Live where love makes itself known
to the clouds.
Live softly. Live like rain.
Live like the Aurora Borealis.

All of this lingers.