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Description

The dawn is overwhelmed by

its pale asceticism, its bated breath

that's soundlessly inevitable, like

the paperboy comin' around at 6 AM.

Our debacles rust like anchors

of sunken ships, while

time blinks until it's caught

in a fit of butterfly coughs-

a mocking fragility.

We carve mission into mountains, but

slick it under hair gel.

There never was an ocean

more fit for drowning-

but that's self-evident.

It's always too soon

for defeatism.