twenty four

A ribbon bowed that wraps to fold
a day as a month full it seems to hold;
time seems no longer any true measure
but tumbling toy with hidden treasure.

A thought bursts out of constraint
disorder rife refusing all restraint;
no sunset to set free it’s hunger
eager gaze reaching to touch her.

A song sings out almost in tune
no aria, still seemingly as fine;
the ether alone to send the tones
what wretched things are these phones.

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