Walking Past the Graveyard

The night’s not over

outside the temple.

 

We put on faces,

while

weaving galaxies

from our

mixed up meditations

to later

stash

untitled pages

from the latest

conquered

syllable of

your poetry collection.

The brain is on fire,

he’s musing along

“take my hand

I’m still fond of you.”

 

I have digressed

from infallible abstractions

as I look outside the window,

ghosting along your heart,

outside the cemetery.

 

rambling ways.

rambling days.

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