A voice strewn blue and skittish
over pages pleading for your eyes
dreams of air for a breath
of a sound for your ears
now that I have aced
to implied infinity
the recitations of a muted conscience
sympathetically refined to (my best hope
for) emphatically-designed decrees of
commonalities numb and nondescript
amid the undeterred currents of
robotic small talk’s swamp of
gestures and conjunctions

With what degree of force
would I knock upon your wall
to rule out the freneticism
of disharmony’s snivelling parade of
blood-deaf messengers?
How little force
would relay to you the gap
between a knock of melody and noise?
And am I even sure I’ve learned
to swim incessantly enough to greet you
with some aspiration in my bloodless voice
to emulate wallpaper?

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