In the quotient of quiet granted
To the deep hours of a winter morn,
There's a continual hum
That scars the calloused cold
And cuts the tender dark.
And you can hear the occasional rumble
Of a train, with its jarring warning horn.
Somewhere in the distance
A siren screams escape
And, closer, a black dog begins to bark.
But sly sleep brings its sleek deliverance
And ferries the fragile dreamer away
To places you can't get to
In the leering light of day.
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