Looking for poetic feet in electric lit darkness and noisy silence
You hear one thousand cacaphonic sounds in rattling rooms
And you announce, “This is treasure!”
Holding your plunder aloft and shouting of its value
“This is gold!” and childlike your cupped hands
Loose the dust within to float onto the breeze
What answer shall I give? To you the wind is ink
And desert sand a place to write your history
The sea an endless fountain of wine
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