| Smiled that kind of icy blue smile of a noonday
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| Reckoning, the tied together two of tell-tale pictures
|
| I"ve sketched in sand castle plots and plans. similar
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| Starting points, both for sin and shooting blanks. |
| but
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| It"s always the unseen sharp pang; the awkward rhythm
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| Of the dance like a tick-tock clock in that heart of
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| Hearts repeating, «there is no happy here, there is no
|
| Happy here…"devil may care touches trickled down
|
| Spine, thigh, and breast may never truly illuminate
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| The finer art of heartwork.
|
| I was turning over with the sheets, and facing the
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| Arched back thinking of how my eyes, half-opened,
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| Caught her arm moving from side to side, but never to
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| Me. |
| it"s all connected by blank words to tell empty
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| Promises of clumsy miscommunication. |
| so we say what we
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| Will, to see what we may, to find a Biblical knowing
|
| Enfolded within the next few hours. |
| it"s too bad, too
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| Tragic… I spent myself choking on the motions
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| Leading up to said misfortune. |