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Monday, 18 April 2011

Flying into the sun


Maybe we need to burn before we can move forward
I dream of the white heat
Were I to be thrown to the source
Passing through the fiery gold
Into cool warmed air

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1 comment:

Kenneth Lipp said...

Grateful for my molting,
melting wax, now
trailed carpet of downy conceit.
It sounds like the eye of a storm.
I will embrace you there, wingless.

19 April 2011 at 02:00

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