if sleep was a bird

in whose tired arms would you seek repose
if sleep was a bird and this lock a key
and the arrows flew as they were shot
pity those arms that flung the gasping heart,

in whose tired arms would you seek repose
if not in the gentle dying mirth of her laughter
and the receding shadow of a sunburned hour
woe to the ill-begotten traveler, long is the winding road,

will the arms as an embrace ought to
nestle a tide moving towards its shore
that set its monumental gesture
if not to the ill-begotten traveler,
receding mirth of her questioning laughter
settle down a floating feather, in this darkening room.

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