There's a mask on my face, I mean, a scarf

that I've placed there to push my face aside,
inside the textures of manmade thread-turf,
and I'm baring my soul from the inside:
And only on the inside, only there – 
they can't see from without, they can't listen
to the velour gold and the dark wear/tear 
that line my throat with light and cut skin:
Ayayay, I'm singin' in key for those
who will never hear, but I do it right –
Perfection is no-perception; time flows
against and over/under the grain, right?
One day, one "time" maybe I'll grow strong corn
in a field of my own – a voice is born.
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