you can't be here
dear running through a forest
beneath pudding stone
the needled floor
softening dreams
and why not
because I only want
to touch you
above the pine
ripped by lightning
blackened
that would be impossible
because I won't allow
you to do that
rock broken in half inch sheets
strewn about its base
madness for vampires
as these eyes
fill with sleep
nothing is fulfilled
the cliff towers
over a shallow cave
partly blocked and dark
thinking about you
minutes melt
I am wasting my time
Barry G. Wick
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