Monday, April 30, 2012

Injured Thoughts

 Are limping towards the
                finish line.   A kiss and

an insult dance.                    The sun is consumed by
bloated horizon.  Music

struggles to be heard
above slap-happy waves.  You

wear a white dress.  You dance
                the sunbeam dance.  Shadows

patrol crumbling
                                walls.      History awaits the right word.

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