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Saturday, July 21, 2007
The Dying
vines
garlanded about me
wrench my arms
and keep me perpetually ill
guillotined leaves
are raining
in their death
my limbs
i can no longer
raise
to the sky
to cry for help
nor praise
there is no sky.
only the howling wind
to waft in.
Woodcutter,
come be a hero
wield your ax
and cry out
timber
CHAI
Posted by inktrip at 11:13 PM