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Sprinklers don't wash you

I wake from a false-flashed recurring dream Flushed stuttering soaked in cold sweat Heart beating out a old bent out of tune rhythm Shimmers of hope dripping from my fingertips As salt fades in time down the lines of my cheekbone Looking at the crescents in my fluttering palms Feeling the bleached light filter past my corneas   Gasping out struck by the wonder Will this ever cease to be?
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Written by
felix-sladal
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Written by
felix-sladal
Published
Jul 18, 2014
Lines·Words
9·69
Notes

Illinois

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