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Möbius Strip

August 21, 2014


No surprise.
Was your favourite.
The game and deceit.
The lust and ruin.
And rush to regain.
Lost innocence.
Must have spoken.
To that place that remained.
Four foot in one sock.
Wiping your hand on your dress.
You never liked holding hands.
It came from a place of dissonance.
Your childlike voice on the phone.
All those early hour calls.
For me to collect you.
And deliver you home.
I read your copy.
And you were right.
It was like poetry.
But looking back, I wonder.
Who was Lola and who was Humbert?
For now the name is a curse.
That introductory verse.
Not so much a tap at the teeth.
As a rap in the mouth.
Very few girls.
Have three syllables.
To their name.
This is where fact and fiction differ.


From → Poetry

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