Wednesday, August 07, 2013

Ants Crawling on the Wall

I'm full of writing.
It's not my heart
nothing as admirable
as my heart, it's my
aspiration, my vain
hope, my fear
of vanishing with no ghost.
Today brings
mizzling silence,
that transforms
in my appetite to
the illusion of heart.
And I sit down
to get something in words.
My readers are
theories and wishes.
I'm supposed to be the child.
You are supposed to
turn an enthusiastic eye,
praise every charming thing,
and be patient.


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