Monday, June 27, 2011


Steeped with angels who softly fly
On browning, withered wings
The voice, the helm, the bitter taste
Of disputes
Of beauty
Of lies

For that planned encounter of chance
I wait within the pale discourse
On floors of ashen memory
We sing
We love
We dance

Clouded skies of wasted greens
Rain of wine, rain of guilt
Wires, codes, keys, and coins
For them
For you
For me

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