In dreams
memories announce their identity
without words.
Color is louder than voice
and shades are indelible
as emotion.
In the dreams of my youth
New York was a song
and the minutes of the day
changed their lyrics,
and never repeated them.
The freedom to see clearly
was my wild and uninhibited dance,
and I saw clearly
that there was only beauty.
In wakefulness,
I've viewed distinct shades of night
creep across my folded hands
repeat a simple verse
and take away
my voice

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