volte face
pivot away from
the old place
where ***** mirrors
accentuate
cracks in the skin;
too wide or
too thin.

hymns from a chasm
that sits in between
they


and


them.

without turning away
dreams (yours and ours)
will fall limper,
whimper,
simmer under hot sun
as they're hung from the ramparts
gnarled and ragged
like the crest of a defeated army

volte face
pivot away from
the dead space
where bruised silences
accentuated
the cracks in your brain;
too much in
not enough sane.

and you will write a million """Poems"""
and they will be about as useful
as a blind man's reading glasses.