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What the poet doesn't see
Eyes hidden
under curled locks
drink up the night's slumber-
unless
they reach
the island beseeched-
and the body of empty fibres
is carved with echoes of the ocean's waves;
(Sail on, oh pilgrim, may you reach your shores)
but alas the wishes of insomniac eyes
are again but charred in greedy goodbyes
amidst the paper flakes
giving in
to gravity
look! Hidden are
the dreams of the poet.

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