I think of wells
The faces at the bottom that are singed in the subway pavement
If you take away the walls,
The faces still scale them, but get mixed up in water rushing toward the tide
The waves leave periodically, but faces get materialized in footsteps
And souvenirs to the unaware
Bottles of sand represent more than they can bear
Or they’re put to work
Industrialized for pardon
Pushed so thin, but presence still felt through distortions in the looking glass
And their inflictions on reflections
Reason for easiness when mirrors met in passing
Seems… fine
But think: “something doesn’t feel right”
Think that someone else fills that space that was reserved for you
Eyes met with a emptiness you don’t know but have forgotten
Think that maybe you shouldn’t have left them
Their names will not be forgotten

Published by Kevin J

I think I write to try to explain moments that I don't truly understand. That's why I have a tendency to be wordy. The closer I am to minimalism, the better off I am. I also do it to keep records of what I was thinking at certain periods of time, so some kind of footsteps are left showing me how I got here. Looking back, it seems inevitable that I am where I am now; couldn't have been anywhere else. I don't have any goals for the future, except for trying to enjoy it. I'm the opposite of most people I know; I no longer want to know what is coming up next. I just want to create the road and ride, or not create it and ride anyway.

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