My shoes are cast in lead, I'm anchored
to the outdoors.
My eyes shoot laser beams through your
window until it melts
and oozes
down the wall like sugar syrup
and the moths that used to hit
their heads against the glass
burn to nothing, freeze in time,
preserved as if in amber stone.
Liquid glass merges in my brain
with the smog and the hum of
late-night traffic and that
voice that tells me
where I'm going wrong, but never
where I'm going.
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