De ja vu

I have waited enough for today's keyword
Breaking out from the minds of many others
Their poems of  nights,of colorful evenings
Filled with banter, tea and snacks,small talk
Now I see a diluted black in a window glass,
Only a touch of orange behind the dead tree
As always I look to others' nights for words.

A certain living poet  looked to a book of men
Whose letters formed rows of surging men
Peeling the skin of the earth, layer after layer,
And their sweat-smelling foreheads had blood
Shining like a  sun that scattered in the sky.
The letters came at you like many  angry men
As you opened page after page of  de ja vu,
Of all the places and men you have  been to
Where men and letters bled constantly together
On their sweaty brows, that shone with blood.

A certain other poet rose from a  black night
Whose words were to be hanged into the sky
In  a body that would hang by  a white noose
But in fact hoisted the hanger to a forgetful sky
While the poet's own pan came down to earth
Planting an immortal seed in its flakes of dust.
Everything seemed de ja vu, has always been.


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