Forty-Two.

With the whistle of the winds
past the earliest hours of dawn,
where the trees are swaying soft
symphonies outside my window,
calling for my memories to come
out and play, I am strolling gently
through dreams half buried in the
past, lingering twice on shades of
blues with a soft touch of violets
lining the horizon, with collapsed
wishes parading down like rain –
half entranced by the voice of my
muse singing lullabies, I whistle
alongside in hopes of her return.

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