closer to the page
blurs the sensation
from the shoulders of my neck
this soft thought
in tissue disappears
in a thickening pool of tears
an illusive thought lies outlined
by such common words
common in saying but in
thoughts tiered in laying
in staying
in the depths
of a whitening page
my palms splay out slowly
my face sinks down into the kiss of it
it drains some well of thought
somewhere
the blood pulsates in the neck
of the woulds where
the heart bleeds for the love
of a kiss kissed page
it does not taste
it is not the
smell of it
or the thought
or the tingle
or the the
the so what of it
it is just the hit
that stuns the somnambulant
that undoes all the restraints of mind
to waken
from a poet’s dream of a poem
written in invisible ink
you think
was it you who swooned
and left to write
and up to down
a watermark upon the page
upon the tideline of words
so slowly slowed
under the lines stowed
and down in exhaustion shoulders droop
and in exhalation ask
what is it that this satiation lays
in this thin mist of lines
soft upon the page
that may still enrage
at what was stolen
from the eternal loop
to lie
finally asleep
upon the page
to await a prince’s kiss
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