If I stand to lose my line of sight
What will the motive be?
Can I continue to hold a thousand butterflies
Against the wind of remorse?
Shall I retreat to solitude and
Overhear lovers' missives?
At what point does the mundane
Become the desired effect?
Five pairs of eyes stare into my soul and
Find no purchase, no understanding.
Just sanded walls and forgotten cigarettes.
Reckoning? Not here. Not yet.
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