Seven Thousand Mile Stare

Seven thousand mile stare,
your ability to watch never
dictated by distance, and
should I cry at the thought?

The furthest from you I’ve
ever been – the distance of
a table top, where minimum
wage was paid to stare.

I tell myself you wouldn’t be
so careless, my sanity held
by lies, lest a spot on the map
appear on the boot, further from me.

And would you watch the
water more than seep up
through the boards through
eyes, my own, knowing
this was the end?

Or could I escape you at your
own game? Hiding out in the
open, fleeing from my leviathan,
praying a radar spot never to
reappear on maps thought nuptially
destroyed in treaty’s conference.

Seven Thousand Mile Stare

twigliot

Joined November 2007

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