{"sf1_id":1341435,"sf2_id":"ve3R92d1","title":"Another Untitled Poem","author":"Dwale","words":88,"posted_at":"2018-06-11T01:28:00.000Z","tags":["Poetry","untitled"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1341435-another-untitled-poem","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/ve3R92d1","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/ba/82/ba8205e6-dbc6-45ac-80d9-6e9c0ca59b79","description":"This one's been knocking around my head for a while. Finally wrote it.","content":"Summer, season of hot insomnia,  \nThat much never seems to change at all.  \nLaying awake in the red desert night,  \nI shape woods from shadow and wait for fall.  \n  \nTen years now gone, and who thought I would miss  \nThe songs of crickets, owls and katydids?  \nBack then, I would have gathered a hammer,  \nSmashed them flat as Pinocchio's conscience.  \n  \nTesting palisades of clocks and yardsticks,  \nNo advent waits for the restive dreamer.  \nI bandage my tattered, bitten hand and  \nTurn the smoke rings on my cloven finger.  \n  \n\n"}