an oldie..
Excuse
My annoyance was whipped from sheer extract
like saccharine
or a shirt pocket.
What you saw was a tried method,
its truth notching with each success.
There was a lot on my mind.
Between the template & threshing
I was a victim of circumstance.
Violence is an extension cord;
going back to the shirt pocket –
this is all stitched to my heart now,
collecting a mendicant bulge.
Most thought it wasn’t in me.
I’ve been amazed at the response,
but a catalyst is never home
in time for credit:
he can’t stand on his own feet
without mentioning his tan,
albeit by detouring over skin peel.
I just hate the idea of lying beneath the sun
to carve a lineament.
It could be the vestigial moon,
but have I ever told you
how beautiful you look
beneath intermediate light?
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