Sunday, November 6, 2011

End of the novel


I think then I shall sleep sound
knowing the wind has played its 
sombre notes upon my ribs
torn in distance 
floating backward in time
nothing you know will dry
eyes flooded by seething weather 
uncertainty haunts each note 
as the song falls away
each page a weary skin
the silken book covers 
are eyelids that meet and 
there is nought else to read






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