Friday, April 9, 2010


there’s a rope, motionless, tight as a snake, under the blanketed tree, though it’s spring

there’s a thought, skipping over seasons, keen to make you smile, though you are misty

there’s a light, sputtering, beneath your eyelids, that I’ve worshipped, though only in my sleep

there’s a scar, flawless, sharp, beating against my flesh, though the story is a fable I can’t remember

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