Monday, August 6, 2007


A hundred winters of decay

she's wondering if she'll be able to hold it together

for another 4 seasons

a cold haunted locker room

she's waiting at the station for sanctuary

holding open an umbrella in a padded room

while out there in the pushing plains

every explosion of the barrel

sends steel slamming souls spitting crystal fires

like a blooming orchid

agreeing in cold convulsions, losing limbs to razor winters cruelty

distant and empty cracks show through her mirror

a mystery like true carnage

cracking glass snapping large pieces of memory to cinder

and dust

breaking into asphyxiating latent mad rambling

no longer does protection exist

from all her romantic torturous notions...

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