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3 a.m. MAG
If the cry of midnight is but
A shadow in your rearview mirror, slowly
Tiptoeing across a distant horizon
Folding itself between the stars
If hazy figures fill your mind, if they
Dance on the windshield of your thoughts
Waltzing to tunes of hope and lust
On a road engraved with moonlit scars
And if dawn rears its ugly head
Over your weary, bloodshot eyes, you
Are possessed by love or loneliness
Both casualties of an equal kind.
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