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an ode

October 20, 2011

With eyes open wide, dry tears chastise and hide, mimicking
the world to the fore.

These eyes, tired old eyes, blink incessantly, needing
welcoming arms once more.

Dusty photographs, sepia lies of an age when the pretence
drenched then a smile.

Now the pixel, playing honesty’s name, failing to make sense
of the insanest of lies.

 

How heard the word?

Now seen the sight?

Directed towards no direction.

 

How keen the keel?

Now dreamt the dream?

Inspected, suspected intervention.

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