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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2009-04-29 | |
I cannot walk across
the silent tongue of the cherry tree. A poetry store. A song of a song. I fear the lines I haven’t yet written. They always take the cruelest shape of a boomerang. I am a living flesh wall. Strange now to think of you: a white blizzard of birds, traceless into cyberspace, caresses my ribcage. Eyes shut. I see Death, faultless acrobat, swaying on the life trapeze. Between two sequences of immortality - so funny, my chase... Even a child can swing up high into the perfect blue.
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