In the quietness of the night,
Strange imaginings are given flight.
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Anything within the range,
Prohibit none for passing strange.
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Conducting music in your head
Or making song sheets burn instead.
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Silence getting wet in rain,
Bring it back to dry again.
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Watching sins grow slowly dark.
Seeing flowers make a spark.
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Make the time forget itself,
Then place it on a darkened shelf.
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Unbursting soapy bubbles as they fly
Or slowing down a morning sky.
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Smashing nice ideas apart,
Then mending them within your heart.
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Scolding symptoms as they part.
Saying all is really art.
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Reading poems in a cloud.
Making words self-define aloud.
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A leaf burnt through by the sun.
All epiphanies undone.
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A gentle breeze that moves a stone.
Making boulders float alone.
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No need your thoughts to rearrange,
All is only passing strange.