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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