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the isms of a Cretan poet

I am the carbon copy.

Desperately drawn

In imitated allegiance to The Original.

Convincingly convinced. Eyeless laughter

Betrayed only by an internal texture

Too fine to discern without pressure.

A pheromone

Leading the bee to nectar

To perfume and petals

That will fade and bleed without ceremony

Leaving nothing like wings.

Nothing.

An inaudible thing to ears

Naturally attuned to authenticity.

The Fraud –

Walking forwards across horizontal stairs

That don’t point down

So will suffice as proof

Of a life striving skywards

With purpose

Directly

To

The

Top.

Of  what.

Comments

One Comment

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  1. Coralie Astrinakis #
    May 20, 2013

    You always fascinate me!

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