Your physiognomies
of thought
once brought you
comfort:
back when you
were sure
what faces
meant and could secure
an
explicative gestural expression
to each whim of
yours –
each was
purely good
or purely not;
simple as a drop of ink
in milk to
spot. But now the faces flood
ambiguously –
and no set of eyes
apprises you of
what it has in mind;
there’s
nothing now to find. Strangely
though, you
undergo no
crisis. The
eyes are kind..
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