12 Degrees & Skiving

what began as year-long challenge has become perpetual until further notice

the blindspot

that night i walked to find peace
lilac burn of baklava in my throat
far colder
than the bleed of day into snow

the scent of promise
the kind Rumi knew
the arc of a mallet
the quartz gem in moonlight

all that glittered in the wind
against the cheeks’ panes

all night i rocked myself sane
the heart is a psychopath
the face of the past is the ugliest thing
you can lay eyes on

I taught myself 
how to string a truth
I’d rather not know

the Warsaw sun the next day
like an ulcer
by dawn I’d understood
the blindspot is divine
and how happy our souls were
in oblivion

Tell me wotcha reckon

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This entry was posted on February 6, 2020 by in Poetry.

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