Mock presence

As if the void you left, as if the scent
I miss could have my senses off this room,
so do my ribbons play the words I meant
as if their late discourse the fall could plume.
Just as the dog of me his crookest sight
upon the haired tapestry bestows,
I glide comical circles to the height
and laugh apart my detrimental modes.
Then broom the excesses off my cranial webs,
clean up my glasses and amend the tone,
and mingle by the luster of celebs
who cannot care a feeling to the bone,
to lay the pain below the happy mask
that keeps the world spooled into the task.

The End

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