Mesmerized by the poems
tattoed in your skin,
classic books stacked from
the strands of your hair,
heir of Hephaestus' legacy,
your birthmark marks murky
figures with discreet radiance
lurking like limpid line art
on the back of a sketch pad.
One face, a collage of
chef d'oeuvres.
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...
