Underneath the beds of roses that frosted the streets.
Mysteries rearrange their reading of me.
Something isn’t happening.

The literal meaning of what you’re not.
The general’s barking, you’re distraught.
Littered with all the nights you forgot.

Crawl into a ball.
So little, so small.
Roll away from it all.

You can make right now this morning.
Life is twisting pieces ‘til they fit.
A different mood this morning.
Life is twisting pieces ‘til they fit.

Underneath their beds, two brothers dream before they sleep.
Made up monsters, baseball, the movies they’ve seen.
Something’s always happening.

Put them on paper.
Pieces as they fit.
Letters that float out to see who will read them.

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