The Mantra State.

T

My attention runs deep

As though I’m asleep, –

I pull myself a sheet and scribble atop her skin

Until it bleeds and turns to pink;

My willing scar is hers to keep.

She can tell if I’m being cheap

Or if I’m being real,

That’s her one true skill,

She’s fond of the after-chill that

Courses through her lines at will.

It’s potent to be a latent that matures to speak;

I drag her to the beginning of my line,

Until she grounds her ears

And listens to my spiel through the running liquid of my bic, –

She signals with a weep,

And that’s when I’ve dotted the Is and crossed the Ts.

A fair-lady indeed that understands my thoughts to nil,

Until I’m dry and void and my peace is a fill.

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