Saturday, May 22, 2010


Dark rims close off
that burst of green,
without which the ceiling would rot.
Tempered under clean cerulean,
gasping, sprinting to water.
One note reverberates on scraped skin.
The last strain killed,
dull eyes quit.

[Also found in my dear insomnia notebook. This one feels too normal(i.e forced), but considering it is partly about straining for inspiration- oh no i gave myself away- I guess that's appropriate.]

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