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Get lost in the garden path, my friends--


Rexyyyby R.P. Ybañez22 Mar 2014

No matter where I walk, a deluge of kamikaze bluebirds
drops. No prelude suggested from ovations—
the amphitheater breathes inaudibly as
a voiceless matinee reels the sundial timeline.

Noir—there’s no air. Black & white foil against
another. Enough white space to be
considered a poem, the screen like a projected memory
files through its rolodex, putting names with faces.

I can’t even hear the clock tapping my wrist,
testing vitality & pulse. This is why anyone should
fear catharsis: being taken away may translate as lethargy—
sometimes, sadness mimics a beautiful Mass.

Birdsong deception. A rhyme in a folk song
slung together by heathens. The brethren
gathering in a fellowship in doctored remembrance:
ex hoc pane; in vino veritas—a slang of bells weeps.