| ||||||||||
| ||||||||||
| ||||||||||
| ||||||||||
| ||||||||||
|
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| >> Static Item >> Poetry >> Personal >> ID #611279 |
| |||||||||||||
|
And the sun
sickens, coughing up ashes and eyes. You are blind and gladly benefit, folding your sore, scorched arms and screaming with dark elation. It is over.
© Copyright 2003 winklett (UN: winklett at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
winklett has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |