Improper Punctuation

My prison bars are sentences without proper punctuation,
a surreal world of open mouthed faces and evaporated places.

We strafe the alien worlds of our minds, the gray ridges along
the surface, with our question marks, searching for new

windows which we walk through into an ocean of reflected roads,
instead of satiating our junk food craving. But even if each fork

leads to a blind alleyway covered in bricks, each brick offers
more new surfaces, like the skin of a lover explored for the

thousandth time, familiar but rife with new terrain leading
back to those alien worlds, to that cell of question marks.

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