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In the swing of night,

train sounds horn several times, thoroughly.

Playground remaining parts and swings rest,

desiring to be finished and ready.

A car spins its wheels at the dead-ended-road, as an escape route must be made.

A bold cricket harps his steady pitch.

Literature lingers, as stacks of dusty papers in mind’s grazing munch.

There must be order in the court of unstoppable inspiration, surely?

Or, does it stay awake to all hours of the sounding night and past-seen-imagery of the day lived?