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)