Saturday, May 10, 2008

He is a nonentity,
The dust of the phantoms.
If Life is the air we breathe,
He is the infant toying with
The rattle escaping her upturned lips.

And the patterns in the ceiling carpet,
Skewed perceptions characterized by
Footsteps in nylon tufts
Waltzing to invisible melodies
And plucked heartstrings.

Her sigh,
Relief, exasperation, satisfaction,
Rolled into a single cigar.

He lights up, lungs filled with smoke,
Perfume, an escape from hopeless love,
A maddening circle,
The dirt road becomes the mud path.

Laying claim to existences
Becomes an utter defeat;
Absence makes the heart grow fonder,
But lack of existence,
And lucid dances plumed in smoke,
Does not mean he is without a beating heart.

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