What Comes Next?

Ink blots
Tell us what you see
Painted in artifice
Bled from saccharine

Look now
In doubt
Intervals at best
Hard shine
Blind eye
Turned to what comes next

What comes next?
What comes next?

Cold sore
Bowing skyline
Graced with your presence
Endurance undermined

Is it he
whose name
is sleep-spoken?

Is it he
who projects
the scenes
You dream
upon the foreheads
of the people
you wish
you couldn’t see?

Is it me?
Is it me?


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