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Sigh-Clone
A Renegade chef chops
Through the desert,
Bringing bread for the Dead
As they rise and bow to the Yeast.
Voices make me nervous
And wonder what time it is.
The phone rings
And I answer the Door.
Nobody is ever there.
I breathe the freshly cut lawn
That lingers in the Summertime
Flavored scent of my childhood.
You roll over and say
Go back to sleep.
That is the extent of my Dreams.
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