Summers.

 
The field,
Conscious of time,
like a sundial
soothes me
by the breeze.
I walk,
Lights and shades
tattooing my skin.
I fancy
whole silence,
A flawless moment to accept
That I am made of
Abiding matter and
Patterns of anxiety.
A dread,
Over my brain
Summer plays
Like a can-opener
pressing my polite uprising
to scatter within
my walls,
like beads.

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