Museum

The evening wind has gathered from the roads
The day’s dusty footprints, leveling the dust
For the feet of the morrow as the sun is ashine.

It’s tonight I will sing my song on our pillow
You will dream of distant woods and sounds.
Music flows from the lungs into the silence.

When the day breaks, the light will show you
Absence has no color, no shape or no smell.
The room will remain the same–the walls, the floors,
The chairs, the bed, the books, the glasses.
Quiet and still, undisturbed and true to their nature.

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