Hollow wood disintegrates on the touch of a fingertip
Dishevelled twigs splinter,
cascading in quiescent chaos.
in the crepuscule: you and I wait.
Perhaps it is the endless benches,
the corridors that clang in death's silence.
in the crepuscule: I wait.
We are nothing.
I am nothing; they are something.
There is grey.
in the crepuscule: I am.
Thursday, 28 February 2008
Even when you're black, you're still a sheep.
Scribbled by Timystic at 22:47 |
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