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The Face At The DoorThe face at the door is a demon, a god
He smiles through stitches, his stare rather odd
The face at the door is a cruel, silent being
Yet, people are calm, and the children aren't fleeing
Quiet yourself, for you're the only one
Crying for help at the point of a gun
Learn how to fly, rather, learn how to fall,
The face at the door... well... there's no face at all.
01. train tracks as it often does, an ego creates a universe of its own.
and my bones hesitate to endure the rattling of my ribcage.
i learned the significance of proximity by lacking it;
seems you have to lose
a whole lot of gusto
before you can convince
to stomach the unwanted.
we were unplanned for.
soft and delicate,
from each other's eye sockets
and flourished into an intangible possibility.
we were a maybe.
not quite there yet, but pretty much so -
enough to make our insides flip
with each other's budding promises.
every shined-brass smile, to us, was golden.
but you were fearful
and i had convictions.
i stuck to my past like hot wax,
and it burned me in places
neither aloe nor poetry
so now, i have invisible battle scars
that still fester under my skin.
and you, you are swaying in your Michigan wind,
hearing the hum of memories from time to time
but not saying a thing.
your spinal cord, taut and crooked,
the bones splintering your confidence.
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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