The house of sleep
is a garage
where malfunctions
lie around,
dicing days away.
We were all leopards
once; but now,
as abandoned cars,
we stare at the moon.
Rusting,
as flowers grow around us.
as the piano keys
are tapped up
and down.
In places that
we're strangers to.
We trudge,
on cloven hooves,
zebras fading
into the concrete.
Surgically stuck
to watches,
that don't count
anything.
We dream,
like homeless roaches,
gazing up
at The Eiffel Tower
or Golden Gate bridge.
We marvel
and for a time,
the hungry roar of the stomach
stops.
A second
and then we're gone.
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