the edges of night

The edges of night bleed into day with hard dimensions,
distances between sleep and waking, which in measurement defy,
the number or the ruler.
How would our rulers tremble if the boundaries of our countries,
matched the boundaries of our souls. Unbound by petty ties to paltry pasts,
from which we did not come, and to which we do not owe anything,
except the tattered times they left us.


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