The faucet drips,
keeping time with
forgetful sun, and
the oysters sleep unaware,
darkness clings to my room,
on chairs and bed frames
casting silhouette, and maybe sadness;
A boys dream
somewhere happy
someplace died,
whatever remains in comic books
and side scrolling video games,
Tally them up to
something lost- four strikes,
a diagonal is five-
the future presses on like the sun,
in my room
coating everything
in shining gold,
the burn-
I close my eyes,
the oysters lie.
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