Hands pressed hard against the wall
Assuming the all-too-familiar position
Flashbulbs going off, blinding white
Traveling at the speed of sound
He shifts from one foot to the other
Asking the audience for forgiveness
Of one kind or another
Or a pleasant kind of interlude
Not unlike a skip in a record
That keeps playing your favorite part
Until it’s seared into your brain
Paused in your recollection
And he asks if he can move
If he can once again shape his destiny
That he handed away so casually
And he’ll say that he was tricked
Run amuck
All the platitudes men say to escape
To get away from the everyday
Without repercussions
And they let him slide back
To do a sort of Harlem Shuffle
Forgotten by the modern
Falling back into himself
But not free
Never free
So long as he wears the same face
And the attitude to match
Marked by time
And blurred lines

Face pressed hard against the separating glass
He sees himself as the world judges
And comes up wanting.


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A great site

Cozy Corner

A Writer's Journey

Whose Wine Is It Anyway?

Exploring life, love, lifting, and (almost) literally everything else, frequently aided by laughter and libations

Dr. K. L. Register

Just a small town girl who writes about Christian stuff.

Sara Furlong

Strategic freelance writer specializing in online content, articles, web copy, & SEO.

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