Dead. Letter. Office.

International Cat Week’s over,
you cannot help but move on what
you’ve eagerly been hoped on:
ashtray heart, strayed apart
from what you should pay for.
Season’s coming, moving ‘pon it,
someone’s whispers on your phone.

Entertaining’s not enough,
yet you found yourself caught
in the tangled web of hope.
Hocus Pocus,
you can’t focus,
crossed eyes, twists and enthralled
visions of what you should know,
will I ever be on my own?

There’s blood, blisters, blur and blame,
all that you’ve wanted for long,
and you swirl on a vortex,
and you twirl, and your cortex
can’t get what you’re waiting for.
Face-spin and your grin becomes you,
you found your own way back home,
no bus left to take you ‘though
you knew the stakes would be
you were the one left alone.

Clenched fists, hurt wrists,
bruised knuckles and stifled chuckles
on what you have wished upon;
known friends, bestowed lents
and all things you’re s’pposed to know:
contained rage, hazed pace,
peace, rings, leaves, branches, stones,
would you free me? can I go?

Número de familiares en el extranjero: 1. Cat in the box.

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