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It falls asleep
To the sound of her voice,
Hoping there will be no nightmare around the next bend;
The dream landscape, ever-gray, calls,
"Come to the mist-covered land of the dead.
We all must die someday, why not give it up now?"
Somewhere a gentle whooshing rhythm reminds it -
It is indeed alive, it which dies every night inside its own head.

It falls asleep
Though it really doesn't want to.
But her voice is so lulling in the warmth of its room,
The bed just the right temperature to curl up inside itself and hope it will be fine.
Sleep, running through the darkened room, agrees.
Darkness, it learns, isn't only cold as the corpse hands usually rushing up to meet it.
Darkness, it finds, can be warm as the feeling of a blanket and a voice.
It is indeed dark, it who will find pleasure in a place of sorrow.

It falls asleep
To the sound of her voice
A blanket of warm sound turned ocean,
Deep blue words drifting past into light-dripped shallows;
Rough, stormy spray on the jagged rocks;
The balmy shallows that belie the jagged reefs;
Or the gentle, swift current, ever-present,
That rocks a boat as though all within were her own children in their cradle.

It falls asleep
As if nothing matters.

And to it, nothing does.
Nyeah, I told you they were emo.
Icewanderer Featured By Owner Nov 4, 2009
I like it!
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Submitted on
September 15, 2009
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