Words eroding

It’s as if I’m always walking on the edge of words eroding, waiting at the precipice where language falls away to push another phrase and watch it sink–as if the evanescence of a voice provides the substance of my conversation, so I speak at length in dialects too thick to stay afloat.

I’m a charlatan, filling niches between grains of sand in hourglasses with the choruses of yesterday’s interment, collapsing lulls and silences that bridge a clock-tick with the memories of hours dead and gone–a perjurer, writing hollow memoirs of an apparition only seen in tired dreams and mornings when a humid storm outargues sleep.

Somewhere in the locus of a keyhole seized, somewhere in the grain of oaken doors where light is empty and the air is focused to a point I can’t draw in, somewhere past a rusted hinge I speak my peace in verses silent but for threads of smoke that whisper from a pyre of synonyms usurped.

#amsterdam #netherlands


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