The muted trumpets
back an undiluted song,
suited for a balmy night,
rooted in a sorry sight.
The sun's asleep,
but it'll be back.
I sigh, acknowleding
the cyclical summertime malaise.
Alone in the dark,
daylight's tendrils tantalize.
But experience has taught me
not to trust dull, tired eyes.
Rest is welcome,
but dreams now are
more repetition than respite.
Maybe tomorrow will be brighter.
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