IDLE HANDS

Kissing signs on the inner stay,
the road tangles like insidious vines,
my idle hands go on imaginary quests,
with no purpose of holding the snippets,
seconds,
the led disappears,
minutes,
the paper burns,
days,
hopelessly blank fingers,
but as soon as the wheel spins,
In a way,
Comes smoking breaths with tissue skin,
which devours twisted thoughts,
spilling,
crying,
unstoppable ink.

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