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Letters From A Stranger MAG
My hands shake as each of the ducks
stare viciously from their posts on
the screaming whiteness they are chained to.
A selfish man tells me that he doesn't dream
while I know very well that he has to.
Maybe he dreams of you like I do.
The cruel whiteness arranges itself
on the floor amongst the chaos of my thoughts,
that are sketched all over the walls
in the penmanship of a madman who has
little respect for the written word.
The brightness of these lights tears my
fears from my head and smears them on paper.
I claw at my chest for the words to tell you.
I can't ever find anything in the void of
my body, which bleeds only dust because it
hasn't been fed enough pain to yield blood.
This metal coating in my throat causes me
to talk with a tin accent that pierces his ears.
A piano groans at the smoke around it,
but I deliberately blow more toward it.
I like the way it sounds when it chokes.
I smile with the thought of your eyes,
burning with my memory impacted inside of them.
Another painful note closes itself around
my aching shoulders trying to crush me,
but I just blow clouds in its direction.
The man begins to say goodbye, but I
can't hear anything but the lingering song
that is playing in my head.
Thinking only of you and the way you looked
when I showed you my dreams, perfectly tuned.
The ducks swim inside of my mouth they
make me glad i stayed awake so long.
The hours of your life stretched before me,
I wonder where I pushed my way in.
The piano finally stops, it has given up,
on regaining my attention.
The last note still echoes on my bones.
With my hands shaking I place the ducks
back into their sea of confined whiteness.
Closing my eyes over yours, I go into obliviousness.
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