Friday, 21. December 2007
Evening Music
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A Winter Poem
Roses, the blood moves in roses,
As winter warms their absent faces.
These long nights spent apart Must be held like this, I know. Cupping together two empty hands I drink deep of this chipped darkness.
Disarray of paper, thoughts in disarray. What should I write today, my heart? Blood somehow moves in this beastly body? Or you move again amongst those far roses?
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