Something about the night,
the falling daylight.
Of the calm moonlight
foregoing the brazen daylight.
The effortless topple of a leaf,
the unbudging roots of a tree.
Still, I'm pissed.
Pissed like the yellowest shade of piss.
Conscience on my back,
always keeping me in or from my place.
What is it about?
Truly, clues lay vastly scattered.
A fresh pot of sunshine,
the hydration of swirling rain.
Will that suffice?
Oh, it must.
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