Conversation
with you causes rifts –
shapes
begin to shift –deft coercions and persuasions
in the rash abduction
of the soft seduction
of your voice induce inevitable
incremental loss of choice.
The sense that sense has turned to scent –
an acrid odor of consent to Fate –
re-conjugates the Soul – and relegates it
to a whole catastrophe of difference.
Everything is whispered – inward –
separates – evaporates –
leaves me in some alien thrall.
It’s as if I haven’t talked
to anyone at all.
.
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