Ezra Eisenberg


Lattice 1

Close to looking with words weaving a patch work of mess,
Or was it message, defining some sensed granular reality
As real as a question on the tip of the tongue
When it explodes, will you run?
Climbing back up your trellis to pull the covers close?
Something pure about baring all in a tempest
Sirens' calls and lashings, wax can't save me now.
Though my words traverse more tenuously then whimsically
Wrapping round icy warmth and rending smiles

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