Saturday, October 10, 2015

Our Acts

Are not discrete, do not come
Tied in tidy packages.
Messy grasps that spill over
All the lines drawn in the sand
Rooting into the out of
Your cotton-picking mind world
Are all the blurs you conjure.

The cliffs collapse without acts.
The skies repeat their patterns
Of deceptions without acts,
Slightly different every night.
Nothing repeals itself twice.
As if nothing would suffice,
Hours sing songs past parallax.

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