What a warped midnight;
some winter version
of an alternate Thursday.
Nothing was right
on the wine-stained carpet
nothing was wrong
on the blood-stained ceiling
nothing was found
on the sky blue sheets
frostbitten near the window
ice instilled on gray
Grey inscribed
on the creases of your sleep.
A crown
a cask
a collective effort
of counterfeit conundrums;
I can’t unearth
your misery
for another afternoon.
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