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The leaves still rustle when the wind yawns.
The stillness is short lived.
Temper. Temper and controlled storms.
A million bottles of hearts that grieve.
There is beauty in your soul’s brain.
Matchless pairs make up your being.
You are unaware that gold flows through your veins.
Such sanity will cause a stone to sing.
The wounded crawl into hiding once again.
Petals wither at the hour before dawn.
Bleed the oil lamps and drop the curtains attached to the frames.
Then the green light will flood in from the cracked window screen.
We will slowly rekindle the dousing flame from the beam.
It’s time.


My Pen

My pen might be my greatest asset.
It might be the reason for my present state of mind.
I’m not in my senses, I’m not out of it either.
This pen explains me; it explains my hike
It defines me; it’s my best friend
Look at me, eulogizing this lifeless inanimate
But it’s the little things that matter the most
Here I am, with this three-dimensionate
But it’s the little cracks that tear us apart.
Really, grateful to words I am
(22 March 2012)

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