At least they've come that far.
Most days I'm lucky if I can get there.
Apathy, complacency, ambivalence, distractions...
or sometimes just a book face
get in the way of a blank page.
I'll gaze longingly into those eyes -
windows into the soul-less.
A face with no expression.
A book with no real words or phrases.
Just fragments, abbreviations, acronyms, and lies.
Meanwhile, any sense of sentient sentences has since been sent to serve a century sentence for making sense amidst this senseless census...
can I take back my two cents?
Perhaps they'd buy me some lost time,
and a new blank page.
But I fear it's too late, for I've fallen in love.
That face, those eyes, have sucked me in deep;
I've become a character in the story,
codependent with the rest
and even with the binding that straps us ever tighter,
though we suspect that everything is unraveling.
And while that book is no book at all,
before me I have eighty bound compositions
wide-ruled, hole-punched, and perforated -
each a perfectly