Uncaptured
Mine are painted lines, inky shallows -
the whites of the 'i' s
blinking in mascara masquerade.
Grease-paint for thoughts.
Words are dreams,
dreams are words
but the sentence
never snores
but fidgets
in somnambulism.
And I stumble over syllables:
that pebbled shore of speech
rattling in the ebbing desertion
of restless, stanzaed, sea.
Meanwhile the grease-paint thoughts
gulling and floundering
in the tide
fade
beyond the dream.
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