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   There were those who through the 
        mist of night, 
   cried to us, and we would not listen. 
   I've often seen their faces in my mind - 
   my dreams in constant turmoil of pain 
        they have known. 

   I too, was there by oceans of darkness - 
   by the seas of endless falling, 
   with such thoughts of flying - flying 
   through the dark clouds of my despair, 
   holding onto faith, and prayer, 
   listening to all the cries and screams 
        of the night, 
   passing like the slow hands upon a clock, 
   that almost reach the stroke of twelve - 
   almost reaching the inner-soul 
        of my imagination. 

   My outlet, the soft white canvas before me, 
   splashed in colors of my heart, 
   and others who fade from their sleep, 
   finding themselves once again, upon 
        stone park benches, 
   and thinking of how far they've come, 
   to greet each morning, 
               the same. 

- David T. Culver

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