from a couch, detained by doubtful words

sentiments were left blowing through the streets, strung along by a tongue tied wind, encouraged by the black-out rage of those never looking within, or back, always forward, dead-aim attack


words never meant to linger in nibbled on lovers ears or bask in the glow of a child’s terse tears, said and sung away softly, drifting down pallid people paths where sullen dreams dry up, fall off, and catch the swirling cycle of platitudes puked into the air, so we can say we did something

they caught fire, in grey matter caverns

destroying rehearsed dance step memories

forcing us

to say something new

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