You’re speaking in tongues again,
or maybe that’s me
defying the defined and fleeing sanity.
I’ve been communing with the dead
and we all seem to agree:
I’m not really sleeping.
I’ve carved a nest for myself
in your hallowed tree, and now
I’m waiting for the weather to forsake me.
You’ve never been on your own long
so you take in stride my every absurdity.
There’s a spark in your eyes tempting me.
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