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Ishmael Hurst Jun 2010
Like a bluebird to the billowing heat,
Like a fleeing fox's feather-light feet,
I have flown to spaces far from my land.
And while cloudy skies silently conspire
To follow me straight out of fate's hellfire,
I'm bleeding just to keep my cards in hand.

Like a sharpened sword without a safe sheath,
Like a tiger with his terrible teeth,
I have severed all ties to my old skin.
And I drift with daylight's vagabond dust
While the sins of a past life start to rust
My soul starves for sorrow, watch it grow thin.

— The End —