Out the door at
sunrise, juxtaposed
against sultry
silhouettes painted in
alleyways, ruthlessly
stalked by acoustic
shadows.
We fancy ourselves
romantic bards and
written word insurgents,
but we never pen
anything reminisced
by anyone.
We won't be the dead
poets long remembered.
Freshly ground, six a.m.
caffeine infusion is our
abundance for the moment.
Tomorrow will be
our ingenious illusion.
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