Liberosis in Redamancy

My heart of excess and hollowed bones of flight

float in empty spaces, filling in meaning where there is none.

I overread and underestimate intentions,

leaving me with nothing but words, disarrayed.

Still, I line my windows with forget-me-nots and sage,

decorating hopeful memory and 

cleaning the air of old ghosts.

If the beloved is an excuse for the poet to talk of themselves,

I will create imaginary lovers until I understand.

 

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