A Modern Form
No frames of Arts
No articulation of the tongue to fight
Words
low enough to skip
the storm
Sing the silence
A circular dream that does not want to be woken up
Words plugged into their stammer
worries stack up without pause
Like something drilling.
I stare into the fire.
I close my eyes. That makes a dark line mine.
The finger beats the guitar without strings.
An hour to think.
Copyright © Eduardo Escalante | Year Posted 2017
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