Another bed, another lonely room,
And distant lights from people I don’t know;
A time to sit in this strange light, and gloom
Along the edge of fading afterglow

As silence sears into my sleeping soul,
Appropriate as only naught can be —
Askance is how the civil eye would view
Appellate wanderers who live like me

Attenuated to the moving thought,
At one with all that is or yet is not,
Amid the thoughts that never will converge,
Anterior to this, or any, spot

Applying all I have to try to rest,
Ascent and declination, I do best

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