Deja Vu

This is the second time
The world has spun
On other axis’, secret ones,
Restricted by those
Who know what it means
To be notorious.
I look through the frosty
Winter window, with oracle eyes
Into a room with a fireplace,
Warm like sleep
Late on a summer day,
And imagine winds
With made-up minds
That walk with striding
Certainty. I’ll go where
They take me
And mark the words
Jotted in the space
I empty: “The prisoner
Andrew Nichols shot
In the stomach while
Attempting to escape.”

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