Wednesday, October 5, 2011


ghost colour quaff my bruised throat
pitter patter and the smears of flesh 
like red phantom veil
white brush stroke
I can not breath for the vapors
a specter in varying tones

signal signal in the ether
clouds of minds gone by into enervation
there is a look there of boredom
and each passing age
folds into the next and disappears
and she disappears too

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