Friday, September 09, 2005


this distance has a peculiar comfort to it,
just conversations of a distant soul
to another dismembered consciousness.
even though, this struggle is futile,
there might be no chance for these weak wills,
i stand with my feet flat on the ground,
holding you.

the sun rises to the war, and everyone is reborn,
the buddha whispers in my ear,
and you grasp my hand,
the tense, perverse aching comes to a close,
as the generals carry out their orders.

on a whim, the clouds bring the rain,
toxic and bringing life,
our conversation never dies,
we won't dwindle,
in this entanglement.


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