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The morning in the attic,
where life pours it’s porridge into static,
sparking a flame.

The shadows in the lightning,
where warmth wins in winter when its biting,
firing up home.

Give a sign, hidden hint.
Tell no lies, force the flint.
Anyone, anywhere, could be doing anything right now,
so why don’t we climb back up to our cloud?

We were up there, before it rained.
Watched the ground somehow evaporate.
Now my nose says it’s been sunny for days,
so why don’t we climb back up to our cloud?

The music in the silence,
where sound makes it’s makers question guidance,
whispers a note.

The calm found in the stampede,
where kind gives the givers just what they need,
centered through storms.

No electricity.
Working toward the old ways.
Life cookin’ on the back left burner.
Hum, buzz, happy’s derived from darkness,
surrounded by silence, a whisper, then a smile.

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