• The body sighs

    A heart so empty you could hear a pen drop
    Against resonating silence of peculiar thought
    A sound as pale as porcelain glass
    That wrenches the very thoughts to naught
    A play on words for closed mouths

    Bided shoulder blades of tension
    That pump constantly like an angel’s wings
    A palm held high to brighter intentions
    Where incomprehensible things linger
    Hope is bonded

    Ticks of the clock a melodist to the chest
    Making patchwork stitching of lacy things
    Nicks on the portrait of perfection
    Count the days with inspiration for living
    A play of theatrics take the bow

    Spindled thighs burdened with shivers
    Pressed at the thought of intrusion
    At a slight plague tortured to please
    Wished at a plagued delusion
    Of grandeurs too tainted to ponder

    Worn soles the perjury of antidotes
    Let go of by the cracking of sorer fingertips
    That with fantasy a reality elopes
    Planted fervently twelve feet under
    The faith of the rigorist

    The body sighs


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