Poems

Our Own Narrators

The biggest liar was he who
told you you were unique. Painting a landscape,
you two went gallivanting across the hills dreaming
that, somehow, while you were perfectly separate and enthralling
you were also somehow the same, somehow joined but forever
apart and thus your own creature, your own being.

The biggest liar was he who
told you you were unique. Feeding a story,
you two went twirling across sentences singing
that, somehow, while you were perfectly awake and enthralled
you were also somehow full of dreams, somehow joined to forever
through your skulls and thus your own vector, your own impetus.

But by far the biggest liar was me when I
told you you were anything. Striving for an alternative,
we two went spiraling down thought-paths crying
that, somehow, while we were silently weeping and in pain
we were also somehow new and truthful, somehow unchained from forever
in our wrists and thus our own styluses, our own narrators.

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