it doesn't care
it comes in
of it's own accord
in the dead of night
in the scorching sun
never knocking at the door
there it is,
behind the curtain
stretched across
the white floor,
there on the shelf
hiding in the closet
winking through the mirror,
rocking in the chair
fiddling with the books,
rummaging through the drawers
switching on the lights
playing with the paper weight
round and round
on the table top
humming under the breath
till it descends through
my pen .
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