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Mystery of the secret gray
tantalize her pale cut hand
Carry on with a paisley blood-creeping kind
trace the effervescent dream
and trail
infancy carved time
Something tells me she ain't quite right
deliver bitter she wails
of windy plain wine
wrap a screen
unwind the folds
blessed breasts hang down
seek the hold
severed prisms erased her sane malaise
Snores the winter winds that breathe .. there's
Wolf din in her eye
blind fool she is who soars on dust-laden wings
Grab a hold of the fields
dew grains weigh it down, mind you
But
It's all in her brain.
Creative Commons License
Some rights reserved. This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
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Author's Comments

For one to explain one's poetry is for one to give the reader a reason NOT to read the poetry.

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July 24, 2008
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