Printing receipts against rolls of
paper to take stock of all the
blocks being stacked together.
The deviation from the plan is
not a part of the game, it is the game,
and from door to door all the
cities can’t help but look the same.
Collecting antique weapons from
dusty racks at the backs of thrift
stores and flea markets.
Always first in line for the new
discs that you keep in a book
with all the others.
We never read what’s right in
front of us, only what’s intentionally
kept away, and that’s how it will stay.
Until the day arrives to come
to grips with the fragility.
Against the world with just
some scrutinized abilities.
Try as hard as you like.
You can’t get through to me.
I don’t think I quite understand the meaning here yet, but I love the sounds, rhythm and flow, so I’ll be back to read it again and try to figure it out some more! A lovely poem.
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