August 30 by The Running Son
۩ • tabula ɼasa •۩
Hemingway couldn’t narrate
the experiences we’ve been through.
We’ve seen fate pretzeled, put to the test,
(almost snapped), stretched thin
until it’s see-through.
From him to her, me to you,
inside our private chat room for two,
diets of sin were served (tasted first)
and tables reserved.
But I’ve heard
when tables get set in flowers and words,
courageous confessions follow,
turning heads and sounding the crazier
being absurdly sent
via two chat-window dimensions:
Then, meanings get bent, go uncorrected
(the moon herself appears low, and half crested).
During makeup sessions and lessons learned
my eyes drip with that same tack with which
old candles burn.
I bet your world was raining––flowing in verbs
of reaction––tag clouds placed
to block a facebook all-systems shut-down
The way we blasted, and launched fantastic
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