Saturday, May 21, 2011

Unfinished Again

This compass is spinning
Its needle is not still
Is never still
Spins on and round
And won't slow down
Speeding up
Taking off
Breathing in the fresh smell
of the new emptiness
That says nothing will be well
That all the richest food
And the sweetest wine
Turns to ash in your mouth
As we smell the sour in the air
Of our unspoken words
Where we...

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