Whispers from the Shiro
Far and few between
are the shadows on paper
that appear as what i mean
to myself
and more so beneath
our surfacing
of suspended
breath
lucky are we
to whom
an hour or two
is forgiven
in the sweeping
of the arms
and slipping sword
of the Exorcist Angel
that makes a way
for each new
beginning
at every
second
of the day
with such
precision
In dialog
we punch
the clock and
in our dreams
make it visceral
If you can still
feel my fingers
tracing your neck
you know what
I mean by digital.
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