General bewilderment, Poetry

she started to write it…

…again like a song

and the notes were prolific

but the _______ was wrong.

And every second bounced now

right off of the clock,

the humming how it deafened

but was unable to knock

through the walls of the translation,

giving up the only door

that opened to a palette

of contemporaneous score.

Her soul hoarse from acquiescing

to her psyche’s dual frown,

its analysis unimpressive

to her cynical eyes drawn down

by the weight of all the irony,

dressed up in metaphors sweet,

the egg had laid the chicken

with a pre programm-ed beat,

and with a glass of favourite wine

she smiled to calm the fray

her psyche saw it coming

she said before, it’s just a segue…


liar

 

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