Many ways to die and never realize it, or a play by play of a melodramatic romantic

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Hiding dirt under my fingers, 
a house is not a promise, or a trap

it is you, and it is your heart
the space you make can be fine

why we don't see the fires
but you
radiate; you breath again

Make shift mirrors, the dreams
make your mouth move some lies

forget the tunes and times
now true,
and again.

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