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Hardest Itch Who's my lover? What's my sign? I'm caught here cleaning, molding the figure of my perception to justify an explanation that won't find arrival. I tend to draw puzzles with the words I make and then tend to draw a solution somewhere be- tween my birthright and my hopeless fate. The garden of drums and strings keeps me happy, and it too smiles to make love to me. Rolling in leaves; dreaming through tree leaves; feeling a water's weave; to skip and stumble effortlessly in my daytime gaze. The figure of a lover; this picture of a sign just collects dust in practicality. The time has crawled through Summer, strolled through Fall, slept under Winter, and is waking to Spring. The dust is thicker now, filled with stardust particles tickling the smell; but making everything filthy. It's an itch of an itch that is hard to relieve, and it's this itch that is itching that won't find me relief. The dust is my lover and the itch is my sign. This is all that will come to me in this hee-haw frenzy of sparatic belief. |
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