Tuesday, May 4, 2010


We dance and there is a feeling of death
that comes without creeping
it is the death of image
the re
of the inside eye

Tell me of travels
o you troublers
or trouble your travels
on my door step,
whats the difference?

Make me a mean man
that way
i cannot feel so much
or so little.

We just want to be even,

The breeze blows
and the light hesitates
before growing dim

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