i've missed how
neatly i slip through you
and miss the bits we
never mention,
boring every second
in my soul, drying eyes
to the tune of mothers
sliding past the plans
they laid, rapt attention,
simple plays mad men relayed
between their vivid
orders, sorted by the
sordid fantasies they've
recalled, floating
in their dreams. but fortune
cannot find everything--
leaving quite a bit neglected,
voyeuristic demigods
comment on their
imperfections. every day
still
works the gap between my
heart and mind,
and we celebrate with grace
the simple-measured melodies
we easily leave behind
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