Faceless

Sometimes the poetry leaves
What is left are only fragments
Stories and events half understood

Cold and steamy escapades
Lifetimes of memories in a night
Spreading ink across bar tops and napkins

Stories of women barely known
Only a poet writing foggy memories as if reality
The best of them held within the darkness of night

The hero of the story a face in the mirror
The muse, the saint, and the whore
Blending becomes a cocktail on a table

Truth becomes a separate tale
Immortality and grace as if a reflection
Sinners, saints, and unrequited love colliding

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