metapoetry
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Forty cents for some paper
—and what for the chance-pen?
Found that one, found the Words Here
—and what did They cost me?
They are here.
Legato drawstrings tempt the blinds down, As heavy eyes burden my sight
Soft light etches on the wall Perplexing, vague visages
I care to speak on my own behalf
When my author is away from me.
Do you take me for him?
does the maker shape the body?
Am I not my own entity?
I am the fencer, the dancer,
The gesture and jest;
Nothing's left unscathed by my fingerprints;
Fabricating the familiar phrases, you can't
Escape my impressions or eloquence,
Silvering keys unlocking the doors
Of the gap between us,
Can I make you feel urgency? The pulse I'm imparting; quick to fade, resurfacing again with fidelity lost among the process, I hope it catches you.
Oh! Outstretched hands implore;
I insist on taking them.
Calloused they may be
But all the while worth more
Than their salts:
Eyeing ahead to the outcomes
Of butterfly occurrences,
