Because there are just times when I shiver with the touch of other skin…
When I hate hearing my own voice and refuge to silence
When thoughts surge to hypothalamus waiting to be written but deprived
When the sound of cricket reflects not of a peaceful night
When Dostoevsky, Shakespeare, Churchill can longer touch me
When winter seeps for the summer call
Deep, crystal clear horizon I turn my gaze watching for dawn…
Hoping for everything to just pass
Looking forward for the ball of fire, bright and splendid
Wishing the sick cycle carousel to halt
Crossing finger not to play the same game again
Crossing finger to keep my words
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