Inkwells dry up when stand fans
decide not to glance over their shoulders
they stare long enough to gather dust
on corners and every small thing
that bears no weight fall off the gray
grand desk
receipts, business cards, old letters
sometimes pens that roll on their bellies
headless without their caps
skydiving ceremoniously on the floor
some soft bound books may attempt
to breathe a few pages
against the force of the stare
but like dead fish, they just murmur uneloquently
still, no words come to wet parched papers
somehow the nearby wall will soon
give in, out of self-consciousness
and mounted images will shift uncomfortably
until there is nothing left but
the constant movement of air filling
your breath, no empty space to fill
unflinching, purposive,
these blades watch, without looking.
7.41 PM | December 12, 2013 | Thursday
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