He sifts through my words

Like sand

Or soft dead music

He touches lines

Mouths syllables

But never my name

He refuses the bird who’s

Echoed his refrain

From one end of madness

To the other

He stands with an abject Monday

Rolled tightly in his hand

Like a lunatic on parade

He yells down his demons

Through the mask of love

Which is really the history

Of two damaged

Children…

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