thoughts flow through the air
like drifts of grey ash from a burning tower,
scorching across white sheets
like cigarette burns.
to some, words sound foreign and strange—
no rhyme or reason—
but not to those who listen
of my Muse’s vanity,
mad scribblings abound.
i disturb the peace of blank pages
with the moving pictures of my silent film,
before it dissolves like sugar in the rain.
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