In the midnight susurrations of my city

I discovered the reason I’m not real.

I perched on the night’s sill,

trying to believe there was more

than worn out words

and misshapen meaning

scrawled in erasable ink.

While the emptiness of my hands

holds so much promise,

I listen to the ocean

in the cup of my palm,

dreaming of something more

than memories, the sting of salt

and the dying echoes of skylarks past.

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