Non-contact Lenses


We search for fragile meaning,
In the bottom of a dirty glass.
I see a wall of animated faces,
Deafening yet quite unintelligible.
Yelling, laughing, abusing, complimenting.
The smoke is followed by brown liquor.
Senses rock with the turntable bass,
Over the cacophony of a hundred conversations.
Thoughts wriggle from control.
Hands restless minus tobacco or booze.

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Eyes trying to avoid literally resting on yours.
Sitting. Looking bored. Feeling sad. In the corner.
Not from fear of meeting yours; fear of not meeting them.
Concern at the tragic, common thought,
That there’s so much more to see in yours,
That why should I be privy to the show.
And what would I find down those wells.
Merely my reflection, and more deserving strangers,
Beneath a familiar, icy calm surface.
Under which I truly, purely do fear,
To never longing be dammed belong.

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