this poem is best suited to be an independent film about lost perspective
a whirring of processes
in a meshed clock-less world
anchor shadows, a whorl
of wind hooks, dust
and movie lights waiting
quiet on the set
ear-less black yet
a nose full of you
scent went intending
never one to be ending
what back stories do
slurry bin for recesses
hungry endless mores
poured more please Tories
pining old ways
tickets were bought and sold
I too, can be lent
poem says, and sent
some thirsty bones and flesh...
and yes, soul does searching
heart wholly holed, perching
a front row seat in nets
EJR ©
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