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Time unfolds like unconscious writing,
A universe of words
Gathered by the fragile consistence of paper.
A godlike creative process,
Soliloquy and solemn.

I slept while thunderous waterfalls
Flooded narrow sidewalks.
The nervebreaking silence seemed a distant relic,
When dragonflies used to enjoy
The kindness of fading lullabies.

I slept while in the hills
Cities clashed for an obsolete reason,
Betrayal and treason.

I slept while thunderous waterfalls
Came washing over those who lingered,
Hopelessly regarding the marvels of self-demise
What other reason could you otherwise Imagine?

I do not wish to be history s typist.
I wish to be it s writer, not a mere spectator,
And to command a rebellion of stars.
A discreet, yet powerful seduction.
A thespian savoir-faire for whom may learn to dare,
How to conceal such discipline.

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