His lies are the whys his word belies.
trials of wordy illusions.
alone on my own, in my own.
would that he but have grown into his own.
his own is my own. his words are mine alone.
he renigs at the drop of my hand and folds
upon himself his all, as soon released to
find me. an enigma, surely, as surly as my
hand in my pocket, with a knife-prick,
and another at his throat.
my fear in his watery eyes, his in my
finger-tips. lips a ghastly pale ghost of
longing for release. would that i have
withstood his fear and finished it with a
pinch. in a pinch, i find my time,
timeless in a glance.
once more with his life in my hands,
i fail, and miss the mystery of Mr. E.
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