Point To The Blank

Barbed wired thoughts flash by brawling eyes, lashed out of corners where peripheral visions can’t square. Looking at you watching me out of the window of your curiosity, didn’t change my perception of us. How strange it is to be unfamiliar in full view of the fixed gaze that found you on the doorstep of my desperation. I couldn’t let you in without letting me out. The fear holds the key, and yet you are the lock that masters the men of big ideas in persecuted ink. Pages worn as they are written,
hung as they are drawn turn to resentment on crowned heads, brow beaten, broken tongue, lick shot of truth slivers out, the saliva trail from mouth to mouth, resuscitates the hopeful bird of song you were, refined in denial, relief in the miles of love lost in an unkissed moment. A subliminal crime of passion parades on the front cover of your second face, a masked conceit blinds like the light of darkness, when the shades that hid your cool, collide into your assurance, slide the glint out of its tinted lens, into the haze, the fog, the drift, the cold of London and the inevitable. Change the key. Or break the lock.

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