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These are not my eyes, these are not my hands
The Dime
wilowisp
Dictated by fashion
and fashioned by dictation
A delicate ice along contours I never bothered to memorize
Familiarity came without expectation
born in a womb of heavy reliance
The tongue chokes, warm fumes through the nostrils
I dream like a drowning man
still dreaming, still drowning, floating, the same?

Walked up to an old hickory poem, grinning nooseman
with yellow drums and lemonade garnished with mint
tall, sweating glass
and that was for you, you know
despite the lick of self-glow, it's senseless in the dark
I could craft a world for you
in borrow letters and memorized phrases
as broad as the sun's own brush
But you wouldn't know the weight of the brush
and I would't know what your eyes would see

Taunt, spread, stretch skin scream
From the rolling and holy to the sharp low
deep depth daring dark dell and wonder
Tried to fall in love with a girl once
but it wouldn't take
Tried to fall in love with a language
but only remembered the girl
Tried to fall in love with a pair of eyes
but couldn't leave the language
Tried to fall in love with a dream
but realized these are not my eyes

These are not my hands, either

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