tHrOuGh ThE eYeS Of fIcTiOn for Saturday, November 24, 2012

THE DOOR Time is a plot A cobweb is a lock The PAST rots Pass it alot Stare at it not For too long Is it unlocked Its not It doesn't belong Not with God Then not Stick in a key A metal stick Then twist Shaped as T Turns like THINGS In a mist Eventually everything Like a mind Not mine I could never... Sign in to see full entry.

Her Hand Was Open Her hand was open It began to look like a branch Her fingers began to look like limbs They began to bend There was nothing to grab There was nothing to hold Nothing but time Sometimes As the wind Blowing through space Without hands to lend Sign in to see full entry.