the quiet hours. 4th edit.
In which
you recede, recess into
the tides of your unconscious,
tenebrous and cold.
Waters
that rise, swell
and crash--
break against the backs of your eyes.
Aimless, adrift
amidst a blind course
between breakers,
colored burgundy in nightmares
and a fear of open water.
Alone,
you shudder a cringe
before the heady currents
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