The whither face makes faces at
age. The corrupt tongue uncurls past
the dry lips and beats the air.
The sound is terrible. Eyes giggle
in their dark holes. The nostrils smooth out
as they flair up. Creaking earlobes tilt back
and forth. The dry hair knows nothing; it
is already dead. All together you are age.
Young looks out, making the same faces
from the playground with the same
innocent spite.
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2 comments:
If I don't know this feeling, from both sides...
I look at the next person in line and wish he would hurry up, so I can step up and have my turn. I'm not sure if its spite, but I can't say its not either.
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