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the dusty sign
       in the ***** window
                         read
               paperback dreams sold cheap...

since i lost mine years ago
i stepped inside to read

            i found a book
  that held a name
          pages
dog
       eared
                     &
               torn

a binding held by
      duct tape
a cover
         clearly worn

what caught my eye
were the dreams inside

    blank     page     upon     blank      page

tear drop stained
  from
     years
  gone
     by

   disappointing      day     after     disappointing     day

i set the book
        down
        
                 on

                       the

                             floor

with the feeling...that's where it belongs

like my paper back dreams

                 i left behind
                       
                           a
                            long
                             time
                               ago
Can't help but sometimes wonder
Where it is that I'd be at
If I had turned to the right
Instead of to the left

If I had for that second
Took the time to hesitate
And the moment I was too meet you
I was running late

Would I now be here alone
If our lives they had not crossed
Would the memories I have of us
Be forever lost

What if I'd taken the elevator
Instead of that flight of stairs
Would we still have met somewhere down the line
Would you still be standing here

Can't help but sometimes wonder
If I would have ever had such love
If I had missed that opportunity
And there never had been us
wish i could write a poem with no words

because no words could explain just how i feel

about you, the one that i love

so much so that no words could revel
M. So Mike I hear you've been gone?

MH. Why yes I have!

M. Why the absence?

MH. I just needed some time to clear my head.

M. That should have taken no more than a couple minutes

MH. Ahhh...no, I was gone a couple weeks. I was going to stay out a month but this site is so addictive! I'm sure our listening audience can attest to that!

M. Audience? No ones listening to this...

MH. But you said...

M. Me?

MH. Yes you said when we were talking that I was going to be on the radio.

M. Dude your me...

MH. I know!

M. Your blowing my mind here...Can we just get on with this?

MH. Sure...What I was trying to do was really just find myself.

M. Find yourself...were your lost?

MH. No just needed to try and do away with some of the junk in my life.

M. I'm starting to wonder if I'm you then why is this the first time I'm hearing about it.

MH. That is odd isn't it..

M. Almost as odd as interviewing yourself.

MH. Almost

M. So any good poems written while you were gone?

MH. To tell the truth I couldn't stop writing...If they're any good only time will tell.

M. How do you think the interview is going so far? Am I doing alright? Asking the tough questions?

MH. I think your the best...That's why I only let me interview myself!

M. Speaking of interviews I've got another one scheduled I really need to run...

MH. Really? With who?

M. Oh it's you but you the World Famous Nuclear Physicist!

MH. But I'm not a...

M. Hey...It's what we call in journalism as a lead in...makes them want more.

MH. But I'm...

M. Don't worry, we'll make something up...

MH. We always do...

M. Ain't THAT the truth!

MH. Shall we do it over lunch?

M. Sounds good...you buying?
a  flawless poem
if such there were,
will always be,
the next one

my poor soul,
my rag tag heart
has no censor,
so careless, reckless,
as if words were but
frivolous treasures,
easy spent, easy get

if only, how I wish I
could harvest my best,
with golden cutlery excise
the single flawless poem,
that I know in my possess

lay down this hand so weary
from cupping tears,
be satisfied at long last,
so much so,
that my casket lowered,
hands in repose companioned,
clutching his best, easing his rest,
a paper record to join his ash,
his flawless poem,
at long last
Written in ten minutes when Frivolous Treasure, Ingrid, and SE Reimer
excised it from with me, a triage performed and a poem delivered, fluid and tear wet,  while Mozart's Serenade No. 13 for Strings harmonized what ever music the man has left.

flawless? Perhaps one slightly less flawed.

give us your names and I will write someday
what my heart knows exists

Words are hopeless, poor substitutes for what they in vain,and we too, we call the heart's decay but this poem give unto me a deeper satisfaction than most...
In the middle of the heartbreak
Stabbing at the open wound
The bitter taste of silence
As it glides across the room

Still feeding on the memories
Of our world pre-apart
Much to late to dine upon
The matters of the heart

We had what I thought, an everlasting love
That was riddled with such pain
As our questions went unanswered
Our excuses did the same

We had become a fortress
But lost the keys to our hearts
With every wall painted blue
Our love became a lost form of art

Who would have ever figured
That with me digging up the past
I'd come across these memories
In all this rock and shattered glass
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