Friday, 24 April 2009

Eastern Calls From An Underbelly

with heads exposed our cheeks are bitten by winds large and course.
like flying cars with rusted hinges.
'are there any peaks left to roam?', my fellow speaks in earthly tones of terracotta and gold.
i understand but, with my deafened tongue i cannot reply.
i know that there are not.
if i speak his heart will break...

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