He can’t change the locks and stop history,
he looks in the mirror, one of several that surround him…
Oh cruel world.
All that pride, all that humility
in his world of sniffed out ghosts.
Vanish forever, or reflect the way we look at distant things.
The mirror feeds him tall tales.
Can the dream monster be slain?
gliding it’s way through the underbelly of his sleeping house,
a veil that obscures truth.
Can he be tempted with an alluring smile?
She spoke in sentences of six or seven
and charmed the artist to his knees,
though that story was never proven.
With the camera packed away, and a full stop in place,
he is alone with his dry mouth, toying with chance.
“why can’t old men be happy and crazy
and learn to know the dancer not the dance”
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