By Scott Sundvall

Chasing shadows

in the darkness,

takes for granted

the movement of

photons. She bleeds

liqourice sticks.

As a kid she

danced with

little ponies.

Where was her

dinner date now?

Her pasta would get cold.

She was the reason

men loved torn dresses

She hated herself

for that. She won’t

drink white wine but

she’ll break your lips

with her glass. She won’t

break bread

over prayer or

forgiveness or any name

of a mother’s death-bed

gift. Her own

omen is this:

in the cage, under

the bed sheets

you will find

the scared lioness

A wall that wants

to crumble but won’t

let you pass. Even

if you say please,

feign to know the

password. A dusty whisper

screams when you turn around.

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This page contains a single entry by beart004 published on April 30, 2009 6:03 PM.

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