The graze of the fire swarm

The graze of the fire swarm
Clocks twelve strokes
Beneath a full sun as if
Time is of their making,
As if the glow of the sun
Is willing to bend and run.

When the ripeness of a pungent
Noon stokes your eleventh
Hour eye, it breathes a large
Dream to shield the light from
Caressing an inner dark that
Yields to no dot of bright.

The hole in your oak tree is
Only to see through a barren
Drizzle, a lost visit by
The callous raven who sits by
Your arm and tells you to
Dream the flight of her love.

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