Tuesday, May 7, 2013


O’ what have thee made of me?

Beautifully tragic
And devilishly clean

Sticklers for perfection,
Conjugating all perils to pillars tall

The sacred space of air
Bears witness, as time is amputated by the wind

Stale diamond flecks of salivation
Seeping stealthily from the creviced cheek
of all who dares to enter

Turn round; Gather ye horses
Do not look back; hurry fast

For like barnacles attracted to the external frame
Interlopers, once adhered to rules as well—
Never leaving without inducing the most severe measurements of strain.

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