BOOKFACE

Every day I’d look into it not bothered at all by the stench the mind recalls.

A smell became so perfectly normal by disregard of origins.

This is just how life is and what it means to survive. Everyone looks into their radiant books to find out their next move. Not just people but corporation too are known to peer calculated in gaze.

One day that perfume ran sour in my solidarity while behind the veil I consider what appears a mortuary.

Dominos in my bloodstream cavalier a skeleton’s liaison pure rapture signaling deviation.

One by one until the foreigner began to liquefy.

A phantom plasticized in duplication a mutation perceived by all but I a carbon copy.

Causing waves within veins brought further enlightenment fancied vibration of glorification half-mast.

My new landscape relishes by way of concrete slabs. A designated flora tumbling into dusty blossoms. The only way to grow was to destroy itself and wait for hydration. This dusty garden is sure to drift into infinite patiently waiting quite parched.

Inside myself after one tsunami the quakes, post warlike riddled and rotting the spring arrived.

My sweet memories now only webs swept into gusts by air. By way of reaction memory to epiphany then germination.

Cherries blossomed as moss married concrete in this grave of memoir.

Leeches held together with invisible traces analyzed to prosper may not prosper at all.

Neither may I. After lone witness of a page in habit unfolding soon closed, silent. Not one bit.

Prosperity rings blasphemy in todays tomorrow.

All the books on faces yield phantom traces assured for the audience of this new world. Lashing the original into submission. They have found other planets like ours.

Everything is new as it should be.

As new as the day is long.

Nothing can be new in your new world.

Reference the old into new to find truth.

A perfect repetition in time constructed by loops mutating until new.

New is nothing new.

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