Lapses in arbitration are the norm

inside the plastic bubbles of forced thoughts
groveling to the six senses, fraught with form
and friendly misfirings – the bliss of doubts:
One's joy is the other's twice-swallowed tongue,
bifurcated in esophageal 
burials and in dirges twice unsung,
as the revived ones hang, incorporeal.
Another one bites the pulv; her eyes soared
on the strings connecting the dots of dust
that shine golden in the lamp glow's accord
that must signify dusk, missteps and trust:
To inhabit a tongue would presuppose
a tight space, which if doubled, would not close.
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