the next time that
you're going to
fly without combing
your hair, tying
your shoe laces,
brushing your
teeth, fixing your
lapses—your face,
skin tags and naked
faces of imperfection,
let your
waxen wings melt
under the heat
of the scorching sun.
and one day, the sea will
accept you with arms
so wide that you'll never
dream of flying
in a sky packed
with mirrors
again.
—MLD | 08012021
YOU ARE READING
Artifice
PoetryMy question marks were never caged but they always find ways to conceal their images and trick the pachydermatous spectator with artifice. Maybe, certainty can be Socrates listening to the mixtape in my closet? Maybe uncertainty can be me withou...
