In the future you will be a regent

of your own domestic space and worldview –
you'll sing from up under the tides of youth,
raising them to crash splendidly against:
Walls, boundaries, corners that project angles
in shadow, under the crisp, square moonlight –
they're digging in (I can see them), digging
into the silent blocks of still blackness:
The shapes flutter as the eye does shutter,
under the influence of golden blues:
a trilling, searching, seeking contentment,
and the indulgent sounds of pure liquid:
We will take bricks and lay them one by one,
until our hand is forced to block the sun.
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