Stumble forwards (backwards?)
lurching
wretching
spilling
into the air without time to catch
though the rope still burns
Self-spun
- wasn’t it?
Or was it a hangman
masked against his own recognition
We only fall in evenings
because the windows are mirrors.
Opacity, boundless in its own right, is
understood badly.
So, yes.
It was.
The pages embrace,
publically nothing,
In emptiness - adhesive
broiled in heat of noise.
Death of words.
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