Monday, November 2, 2009


Rung by rung

It rises.

The pulsing rhythm

Sears through each layer

Of flesh and thought.

Spiders crawl

Weaving synaptic webs

Of abandoned dreams.

Sleep brings forth

People long dead,

Faces that no eyes ever beheld.

Columns of bone

House fantasies of freedom

Movement without pain.

A dance of promise

Twirls up and out

Down and in

Around and around.


He says,

But she remembers

What he forgets.

tall penguin

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