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Abstract Painting

@ T H R E E AM



Time is never more illusive

than the dim hour in which

metaphors and linguistics

kiss


And then go tell


Revealing what happens when

lovers sit wide awake

immersed

in pleasurable solitude


Detached

from everything

Latched

onto the remnants

Straddling

the thickness

between fantasy and fact


The tick-tock of the affixxxed clock is never more

penetrating

than the minutes in which

lovers

become poets


Spooning words around lubricated pages


Droughted thoughts embracing

salted sweet tears

of neglected regrets

of dripping desires


The seconds running across the stopwatch are always out of order

when they leave uneven footprints

in the sand of the beach

that is the mind of the dramatist


When lovers

and poets

make love to 3AM

the alarm clock is always the antagonist


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