Sunday, October 5, 2008
By Chance [Calliope form of poetry]
Chances are: The trees that make the forest do not hide the view. I have been blinded by lack of insight, yet my blindfold drapes. In my doubt, I swing a double blade axe, severing my milieu. Chances are: My thoughts lost among wild flowers and never grew. The fronds that make the ferns serve to...
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