These words
are all slanted,
but I can't help it,
my hands were produced a tad
askew.

I've substituted all
sincerity
with another ghost
emotion, floating along
my synapses, cocked to
haunt at the ready.

Now everything
is dry, sometimes even
dusty; the saturation resulting from
monsoons of
'thought balloons'�
is non-existent.

I can feel the descendants of
my past desires, self-weaning on the
dust parasites of the breezy desert,
gratefully providing false hope.

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