The heaviness in my head
tries to defend itself
from the fog of thought
pieced together by fear,

but it has never won.
See that damn fog rust
the hinges of my jaw
and turn my teeth

to stalactites, beyond
which my tongue lies
dormant. My eyes grow
worn and their lids

wish to be drawn shades
to the fiery light,
hoping to see all
of nothing. The lips

you touch are impartable—
very much like the Red Sea—
though, they know your fingers
are like ten Moses staves.

I am wont to believe myself
when I saw there is no
properly sturdy palm in which
to rest my head of heaviness,

but the fog always dies
when held in your hands.


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