Private: Wouned doller and the smirk.

Forget the hemline, it was the taste of hemlock on her lips

I avoided all possible failures by hitting the ground running

never stop for anything, nothing is unique as snowflakes

and even they look alike from time to time

My watch stops as I listen for the world to call out, wild

Her hair was delicate and she was not and I am away, distant

wondering the shore line, waiting for ships to come in

finding only the reminisces of all that was forgotten

She was boxed in a carton and sold to any bidder

no matter how much or little, she turned it out at a rapid rate

seeking a free dinner or a half ingested pill

The thrill of the game would kill her all the same

no matter how many heroes play martyrs for loose daughters

The sun is a savior and the tree’s provide no shade here

so I find a cave and lose track of days till I almost drown

in my own words, i leak delicately deliberate diction

The truth is always stranger than fiction and this is a sickness

serenading dark angles at horizontal angles, beveling with my awl

the soul leaks in small fluid ounces and the hunter pounces on prey

it was images and elements that made the stage play

we were all actors playing tired and afraid

our Broadway run was done

ending all our fun

now we act

at peep show

theaters.

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~ by Aumbeche Rishi on February 5, 2007.

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