In between a siesta
and a night slated for grammar,
I find a canyon
to banish the scripted emails,
as punishment.
Many remain in obscurity there,
others return after sunset,
and remind the dwellers
of Nazareth,
words are immortal.
The subject lines who made it,
and the woefully inadequate boy,
dance on a wooden stage,
the rickety scaffolding,
creaking under the
weight of expectation.
It is night now,
the light bulb says mockingly,
singing a glowing tribute to normalcy,
but a long shadow lurks
just beyond his narrow mind,
bolted like my front door.
It keeps the couriers out,
food slips in;
thoughts and vision hardly do,
the essential commodities, desolately so.
-- Leslie Xavier
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