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Along the Same Lines

What I will not say
burns me like fire;
reflects like campfires
in your eyes.

I cannot tell
and that is my sin.

You see.

Say time is not time,
but a magician’s trick
conjured by smoke and mirrors;

say that we have met again
by sleight of hand.

When meaning is a mixed metaphor,
I cannot tell words from wars;
cannot argue with myself
while you look at me.

No more roller coasters;
no more empty picture frames;
waterfalls must flow
down, not up.

I must be able to see
your hands
when you colour
in between the lines

of my heart.


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