Aug 122011
It seemed there was a reason
In the clay because of things we did.
The ground was moldy with reasons
As with wordy worms. 

The sky burned blue because.
Irrelevancy and vanity
Vanished vanquished in a hush.

The magician of days,
Svelte in becoming blacks,
Educed only

His own gloved, whited hand
From his mysterious sleeve,
Nothing more.

Chiaroscuro clouds
Meandered meaningly
Their grey, unsignifying shapes.

Sorry, the comment form is closed at this time.