Sickroom
A matter of fact thrill
likely bends in an arc
A thrill sends signals
in different
directions. I will bring you
a bottle of water,
a palm pressed,
to your forehead. This town is the source
of compressured breeze it introduces petty glory.
I never seemed able,
to move both hands,
more than in circles. Completely certain,,
why I only find you
as the darkest syrup
Guidelines
No one has the willing tread, on a street paved with alibis.
A grace of reluctance
that's never realized
but a past reflection
of the chains traces. Orange buildings clustered,
in masses in glass and steel. Constant noise sustained,
loud as a bolt of thunder.
Where I grew gaunt,
cheekbones broken,
the hairline silvered.
Kowtow at baseline,
claiming to perform
defiant at end of day.
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