Its an un-arranged shelf
we call the self; it dusts
the splinters of dreams,
assigns a corner for
broken words and colours
which blossom through in
a tired night. The music
hangs like an elegy
to a rusted day, the
dust of a story rubs over
the shoes and you fall
in the arms of a stranger.
The past as alien as an
absurd work of art floods
through this foreign country
reminding you of a face,
and a day when collapsing
across failed words a pen
refused to write. Memory
edits time.
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