I watch, and match your every move,
disjoint in self, and radiance, too.
Something compels me to cross over scape
for our minds to match in soft embrace.
Soft like the soundless, vibrant air.
Soft like the sense that one of us cares.
As we loaf, in manifold harmony,
there is still a thing we cannot see:
The soft presence of dry dusty skies
has spoon-fed us full of lies!
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