Pulse (poem)

Pulse (for Amsterdam)

Static breathing, head powered on
to full battery in lightbulb harmony
inside buzzing cafés:

Escape was a necessity,
not a choice.

It was an eternal slow motion:
ambling, pounding, whispering voices
going again and again
after every sentence along canals
looping, swimming free motion
in motorway thoughts,

Running over a purple heart
pumping royal, of violent sunsets
slashed over a drooping sky, blood-eye
half closed, ready to drift to sleep…

— The Finicky Cynic

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