My twin brother doesn’t look like me at all.
True, his face, the whole body for that matter, does resemble mine
down to the last detail, yet it would be hard to ignore the crack
running right through the middle of that vile countenance.
But at least his hand is dripping with the same shade of crimson.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
A day never lasts past midnight,
and sure, you can always say a new one has just arrived,
but what if the previous one didn’t have a chance to toll its end,
neither moving forward nor melting away like a stuck celluloid frame,
and—though you might have bid it farewell by closing the curtains,
expecting nothing but a clean slate, even if a few occasional scratches
marked the coming morning—it turned into a galling tinnitus
amidst the cries of a peacock? Would you rather ignore it
or reveal its unseemly secrets?
hidden pilcrow 