A sentence grew in my mind
it died on the vine.
Sense could not take root.
I cannot unearth the truth.
rs
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A sentence grew in my mind it died on the vine. Sense could not take root. I cannot unearth the truth. rs
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Dancing alone is an art
perfected in a dim lit room. Where bottled air inoculates against intimacy, and intoxicated memories confuse the day before and after. The machine sucks at your blood. Keeps you alive and does not cry or lean over to caress your face. While you sleep I light a cigarette and try to take your place. Lovesick in the bathroom, the women go home without tears or complaints. Except the last one who burns inside as you plunge headlong into one last chance, one last dance. There are questions to ask, a few last questions -can you hear the hammer click? Are there signs? Is it bright, slow, lonely, quick? Are there spirits dancing in the room or do you dance alone? rs |