Sleep
of superlatives averaging out over a span of
pretensions,
knitting character to a roseate wobble
of
the times. Mouthfuls scarring silent nights.
Sculpting
wrinkles in solace surrendered, in sacrifice
to
balance hinging on the willfully unknown.
Complicity
in mystery maligning fragile hopes for
shadows
tossed about the yard. The heroically
ignored
remodeling crannies in accordance, just
enough
to explain what is so glibly away. Littering
the
future of the past in the mind, planting gardens
where
little is expected to grow. But the dank
burrowing
niches in the depth, from which light
shrinks
in concurrence with the simplicity of
assumptions.
Beneath umbrellas of hyperbole
bloating
the inverse, to feasibility amidst hopes
squandered,
reining in the good and bad of it
sold
to tourists as mementoes
of
having lived.
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