Thursday, December 6, 2012

The Memory of Friends

Dust gathers upon
the paper that lies

in wait.

      I fester within

the confines of your inkwell
my hopes, frayed
                   quills lost
to dust:

swathe my mailbox
                 scour the rusted farce
                 flake away the painted mask

            rub. my present. raw.

                        farewell my past

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