broken sequences

by mistersoto

thumbing knuckles
deeply into distilled mornings
the heart’s mirror
reflecting morning’s light
a ceiling study
of an old map
and it’s elder borders
his fissured loves
and defences broken
his paths disappeared
in hindsighting
dislodged somewhere
in his chest aching
his calls home
in an island booth he dropped the coin
but knows no number to tap
for home or past
and returns to
fingering the frame
of the pane
and stares through again
his glass
pain

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