Is It Poetry (1958 - / Bus-Boys And Poets, Washington D.C.)
The Fault of It Sleep Takes
The Fault of It Sleep Takes;
I hear your whispers,
but I can not move your lips.
It is now, I know so hard that
you lie still.
I touch you early and you speak
too me with such a lovely voice.
It is my fault,
each diamond studded tip,
and when I can't speak,
you have explained, but I forget.
All those tears of mine you drank.
When the Fault so clear is mine.
Sleep you shake,
when I can't awake in 'Time'.
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