Déjà Vu

It happened to me once. Winter came, and snow quilted every inch. I stood on the soapbox, as I was told, and made staggering accusations. The public ignored, so I retreated behind the potted yew. I was waiting for a moment I was supposed to have on a balcony overlooking the giant, gridded landscape. The sounds I made underscored what I meant. The potted yew was the face that I wore. It was a metaphor for what could be. The public endured. I put the potted yew behind me. I made staggering an art. That wasn’t the truth though. Winter comes and negates all it covers. It doesn’t matter where I stand. The balcony is a floor without walls. The yew is a hurt that shadows. The instance lives beneath us. Not just us, everybody. The shadow hurts us. I make sounds like the truth. Fate and theft are involved. I think I told you this before. The floor is a wall that obscures. The yew is quilt without color. Shadow is a fate you involved. The yew on a balcony negates. I told you this before. I was left undone. It’s what I meant. Underneath everyone.