The Hands on a Face

Some count days for reasons
far different than I do.

With each setting sun the heart
breaks in gold and again.

This one brings no peace as
the voice of a pen calls out,

To wallow in a blue ink and
drown in the eye’s lake,

Painting faces between thin lines
on metres without rhyme,

Borrowed memories to fade
and burn like old wounds,

Written in broadest strokes
from a brush-like clarity,

With each setting sun the heart
breaks in gold and again.

Some count days for reasons
far different than I do,

Towards the next and not
forever away.

58

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