Monday, August 2, 2004In RetrospectI speak in lies, my mouth Budding flowers of late December Dying before they sprout beneath The icy grave, of pulp and dirt As I pigeon my way into the city, Flying above the normality Of death in suits and loafers Knocking teeth with vagabonds Fluttering to my skin like moths In half syllables, my... Sign in to see full entry.posted by MiaElla at 3:15 PM Comments (6) (permalink) |
