Despite its threats, it won't last.
It's just one vacant log
In an unfettered bog.
There is no answer to it.
There are no questions either.
So really all we have left
Are our soft, guilty hands,
Which tunnel the daylight
Into wide, retreating tunnels,
Until we're ready for it.
Not every day is like this one.
There is no need to be tired.
Nothing so tiring as summer,
Stretching its warm coils
Around deserted necks.
Still, a breeze every now and then
Comes in through the cracks.
When I ask for a kiss,
It bares its teeth,
And eats away at the silence.
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