Wednesday, December 30, 2009


Dark twists engulf
like a self loathing

tornado sweeping
away all hope like a trailer

park memory. There is one
cellar I can run to if I

hear the siren. But if she calls out too late I
have to hold on to the thread. Hanging. Pleading it to pass.

Winds of a crypt long closed, reopened
to unleash the harsher tempest, seducing

me to fly , but holding the
thread, hanging on by one claw.

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