Whisperer of Mischief


This empty parking lot
Is littered with your whispers
Of strange truths
I would die one day,

Of dead bodies floating in monsoon floods
In which you wade
Searching for the familiar bulk
You would still know in a glance
Even without a face.

Of cold finger tips on your brow
The flick of eye lashes
On your cheek, before the fire began
To burn you in your bed.

My car is empty. Shutters locked.
No face to peer from within.
Out on the streets new memories
Are being lived, stagnant and shimmering
As a traffic jam in the sun.

In a sudden surge of conscience
Sirens blow
And red lights flash
My own skull and bones
The danger sign..


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