Saturday, December 16, 2006

Inkwell

Was an impossible dream really,And the world was without words.And in silenceThe suffering speache of a peopleA modest mouse-coloured peopleWithin a word wasGhostly gray,And no one ever hears a word they say.One by one the Butterflies go offDrowning in the inkwell.And a band of gypsy thieves Sing in memory of their mountains and Heights,As no one falls out of the skyAnd love falls backwards into death.In a word,a whisper,the final cry,A meloncholic shout!

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