Tacenda.

 

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A calendar set to the August noon,

painted haphazardly

by mouth.

 

Can I unbolt the door?

 

Salt-sweat oozes

from half-shut eyes.

Half-drunk cup of tea,

cooled, detoxed,

but not forgotten.

 

Where am I shelved?

 

The gentle moans

lost in the rumble of thunder,

My dust-greased hairs

flutter.

 

 

Frivolous makeshift, am I not?

 

Dandelions fatten,

Grapple me in.

Confused scuffles

down the spiral staircase.

 

A canopy of tenebrosity.

My almost burnt cigarette.

 

The razor-thin line

between Love

and Lust,

and a set of

amaurotic mortals.

 

Broken knees

of a dancing ballerina,

I fall.

Bronzed from head to ankles,

I fear,

my line ends here.

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