Temperate winds bring many things
At times when all good people sleep;
Beneath a broker’s wing they shelter,
Their interface to face the world,
Whilst resting on a fettered base
Awaiting its return.
Intentions neither formed nor framed
Or mentioned once whilst making;
Beyond the end of waking melt away
And daily graze the surface.
Sentences brought from the past
Brushed off with wish fulfilment.
Days on and off address the same,
But their cold fires are less selective;
Energies renew at will, and lose
Little upon the hill of night,
Drawn out and gently weathered
Until rendered well tomorrow.
And follow its assembly,
And worry less than yesterday,
For no one can bring enmity to you
As you’ve called it out yourself
And taken from its empty threats,
Dissolved along the west.
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