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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