the rains have washed your face away, you polish your silver with blind eyes.
not a peon, but not the most important–your hand is valued,
but the love of your ghost singer cannot keep you where you are.
if you stood side by side with your opposite equal,
you’d be welcomed by all the sleepless,
all of those depending on their
daily morning kick-start.
you fill more than one pair of shoes,
although one of them came to you simply because
everyone came before you, and none came after.
clearly this 365 thing was a bust. oh well, can’t force inspiration.