Resting as an outline made of chalk
Phantoms of the places that my feet would never walk
Motes of dust escaping as I talk
Blots of ink from fingers touching keys, but not a lock

Holding what was never quite in stock
Silent to the disapproving voices when they balk
Distance like the minutes of the clock
Stasis holding firm as mind and body cope with shock


About A. P. Christopher

I'm a cynic, a nihilist, and a pessimist. I'm a hermit filling the interior walls of my empty cavern with the words and pictures of a mind adrift in disparity. I also like lifting weights.
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