Shampoo stings
the corner of your eye.
You peaked seven, eight
years ago
when there was still a witness
worth a damn.
The wise ones fled the field
leapt from pages
like every blade was ablaze.
[but unfinished business]
It used to be the litmus
by which you judged your salt:
If your life were a book
would you be
your favorite player?
Now you wonder
why the Author
didn't write that role out sooner.
[to which you surrender]
Art's aim is reaction
you'd argue
justifying life
through fibs sold as fiction
[each day that you can?]
each day that you can.
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