so some men never age, cooped up in oils
and pressed in pages while seeping
strains, strings, similes start to take their toll
and some men never think, they only move
these wrinkles, these eyes, these grooves in
twisted metals made to look like mouths
others yet are tired, swallowed whole and stripped
naked on the plexiglass of tangled minds and wits
as for me, i'm falling
and it's purposeful, it's true
there were rainbows on thursday
though i'm still content with blue.
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