by LJ Frank
the worn covering of a celluloid edition
edges flayed by years from sweaty minds
a life short by the time it’s lived
I’ve noticed staying too long indoors
creates a myth of not belonging
though self-disclosure is always a risk
the lie becomes the reality
and a post truth moves into an overcrowded room
the original is now in a revised format
and knowledge is on loan
the subtleties of conscience are lost
epiphany like the raw feeling of ice on a warm skin
the wild grasses of speech bytes
a paragraph catches the brain’s eyes
the lower lip in angst bites down
a drop of blood stains the white blouse
the black wool blend is hiked
above the knees of winter
adjusted and exposed
boots covering massaged bruises
a forced grin
Mr. Speaker can you hear me now
the Minister of Justice turns a deaf ear
eyeing the stock market lying on the podium
the man from the Street becomes richer by the hour
the sanctuary is no more
passport updated with fewer places to go
hoping to replenish the soul
stepping over pieces of flesh
lying about
the skeletal remains of the day
eloquence wanting to escape
hidden in the crevices of trust
left over from a previous century
is the Revelation a script of paranoia
or there’s something else altogether
an unknown prophet writes by candlelight
in a language
thought to be deciphered
on an ancient papyrus found in the desert
only to reveal
the misreading.