Hours – A.P. Christopher (a constant Variable)

So whether with a smile,
Word, or song, or blade stiletto
They’re just different names for strings
And you, my dear, are still Geppetto

And I, to them beholden
Saying all your lead is golden
Wait with sadly bated breath to see how long until I fold in

And underneath the ire
Where your grin is like a dagger
And the wounds cause me to sing
Your name in pain and slowly stagger

Behind you ever spouting
Words of praise and never doubting
That the whispers of remembrance justify my lonely shouting

And withering in lapses
Do I clutch to the betraying
And from comets do I swing
To disregard the words you’re saying

Collecting, as if flowers,
Thoughts of love where loving cowers
Holding seconds in a shrine within a prison where the bricks are made of hours

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