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Image for the poem Merchant

Merchant

Time had begun to dissolve into itself,
as shapeless as the rain.
They say time is a thief
he was not.
He was a merchant.
Today he sold me the exclusive;
early morning dawn
on fine-grained orange
a tempestuous blue canvas
staring me in the face.
steam floats above
my coffee cup like
a silver blanket.
I am still partly filled with
a dream mood as
my soul still wanders
between the images of my dreams.
Perhaps this little silent moment is
about an incomprehensible depth
that reveals eternal happiness.
there must be something sacred about this.
This is reserved exultation,
this is pure makeshift infinity.
Written by PurpuraBuho
Published
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