Following Logic

Following logic
like a terrible art
the lines never breathed
life from hue
The atmosphere, less
colorful concepts and persistent
passion became more
waxy molds
and wicks
unlit.
From its very bend
and knowing frame
even the desk
knew the lofty theme
of its heavy stacks.
A tendril of smoke loops
luxuriously, the only clue
to a present mind
like that hotel
at the city limits;
guestless
but still open.

She Cannot Be Hurt

She cannot be hurt
if she remains unknown
so she walks these streets
in stolen clothes.
They clung to you
as they molded your form
outlining a you
hollow and warm.
She knows the danger
of being well known
but worse, she could be
to herself soon shown.
No reflective glass or
rippled pool
will hide the fear
of one lost fool.
And so these streets
she walks with dread
spooled in borrowed
bleeding thread.