Looks and books

I tire of looking for minds.Great eyes wander-

Looking at the ground.

Scouting around or absent

God sends, lost afraid unwilling.

Making connexion. Hex or

hiatus has lost us our bond.

Puffy lids. Envelope the whites-

I am the egg that careers into a

Future. Unknown and freaked.

Abound ideas of being.

Alone, none of ‘us’. 

None of we… Only a stern look at the ground that kisses my feet. 

Ovals roughly meeting me. Everyone doing everything in a round about. 

Conga lines form from politeness.

Arbitrary society, we are together for no reason. Our curiosity in life, boring into the backs of friends and strangers heads alike. Only kicking out when natures pull tells us rightly. 

Pitter-patter of feet.

The potter of dance and gardening.

Magic grows from within. 

But the line that we follow in circles grows thin. And the bonds sever. Hands on flinching shoulders makes the relation un-cherished. Red faces and wrong reasons. 

Out with time. Our disconnect and freedom is a misstep. Kicking out. Lashing left with two right feet. The conga line that we cling returns us each, individually. -us, our own. Alone

To humble home 

Land line’s phone.

Connexion.

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