Lone
day
of the organized screen-bred structure.
all is known.
every fidget of muscle and thought in place.
night
of the chimerical panther,
loping free to shatter consequence,
hot on the tail of a moon-jeweled bird.
day,
the screen reflects the head of a ghost,
who pretends to have empathy
as it speaks into a mic
over a grave-shaped chest.
night,
it cries the wettest of tears,
which leave no dampness,
waking to buck in the sudden rush hour.
across the room
in the patience of a lone mirror,
little to see.
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