Thursday, July 15, 2010

A Thursday

Indecent raindrops.
The fury of creeping
against time, in losing
memory of words
not yet written.  The
wine of it all.

My cursor...

I can't keep up
with my percieved
self.  So there is
relaxing on a foreign
bed.  I'll take this
into account upon
waking when these
stanzas seem so

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