sketches of insects
sweating off the wallpaper -
there is a scratch on my face
that, in a mirror,
looks as absurd as a cartoon cloud
drowning in the waters.
under the floor boards
the sketches sit,
unreleased,
(unvisualized)
with all the stories
been sweating through the cracks
and missed
by the uncaring observer;
just over the church steeple
and the rooster before light,
reality kept moving
without consequence
and the momentum of a child
with stairs on a dream.
when in the middle,
the dream and reality were clear
(as were the nonsense and
imperfection).
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