Stacks on stacks

I could be the empress of a place like this,
queen atop a stack of pens uncocked.
so there’s a stigma here, obviously.
We’re drawn to a seductive essence,
what is it? What is her name?

We aren’t supposed to tell them
that we’ve met...

and she shouldn’t know who I am
but she does... I’ve come before
and I’ll darken her doorway again, I’m sure.

The bitch knows who I am.

So now we’re interacting like you haven’t been there either,
feeling the building swell up and sigh peacefully about you. 

The frame exists for us to pull beyond,
or ooze from, set in place by someone
yet we grow and crack up around sidewalk poured

by someone. it’s always someone,
the face that speaks of normalcy,
and we’re bored.

(it makes sense that audio bytes of our madness
make sense to me, stacking stacks
of clacking seconds back
on stacks of repeating
recursive stacks
of seconds)

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