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| Sometimes they come back, Unsummoned. And they come Cruelly in slow motion, a Frame by frame repetition of The scene. Minutes extending To countless vivid moments. Like rivulets of raindrops Seeping into the gray relity. Sleep takes flight and Leaves me with the memory Of the echoes of its subtle Retreat; a faithfully monotone Beat against the Erratic rhythm of the Native night. Like a Passing blur of Muted colors, Like the screaming Hues of sunset, life is Relived by frames. And they Come cruelly in slow motion. Unsummoned. Sometimes they do Come back. |
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