Poem 44 Revised

Attic Portraits
There’s a box on the wall
And a man in the box
He smiles when you smile
And he talks when you talk
But you are not the man
He is the inverse of you
He is the sour survival
The piecemeal of rot
The wicked inside of you
Roped into knots
But you are not that man,
He is the inverse of you,
That piercing sore,
The sore at the core of a man.
A man who would smother his lover
Would oil the streets
Set fire to reason
Spite life with disease.
But you are not thatman
He is the inverse of you
And you burrow inside
What you fear to be true.
There’s a box on the wall
And an eye in the box
To see all

Not forgive, not forgot.
–ECW 
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