A Knife in the Dim Stirs

Who listens to tales that have been told before?

So endlessly more like the cobwebs that thread the stars,

Even from way afar one can tell that inner voices have no ears,

No blinking tears that could puddle at a dreamer’s bare feet,

Filled with impassioned speech for the life of him or her,

A knife in the dim will stir that muscular pounding thing,

Not there to think whether taking flight or loving,

In spite of nothing it is just what we must be,

Stabbed and free flowing dark and scarlet,

The only hard bit is deciphering the comings –

It’s just some things – from the unaccounted goings,

Within the mindful sowings of reaps yet to be harvested,

These hardest things cause worlds to slide upon soft ice,

With closed eyes we dance with specters that deny the light,

Romance’s stroppy plight orchestrated to a melodic symphony,

This could simply just be another what happened moment,

Where something unspoken might just be the difference,

The least resistance blending desire with need,

That indeed would be a tale for sure…

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