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 Jul 2013 Emma B
sara
she was like a splash of acrylic paint
on a canvas of watercolor
she did not fade in
she did not soften
she was bright
bold
beautiful
something different
the other watercolors
whispered and laughed
she held her head high
but i could see her lips tremble
they pulled her into them
they watered her down
she sunk into the canvas
just a little discolored spot on the paper
wHaT the **** evEN iS tHiS
 Jul 2013 Emma B
Paul R Mott
We sit in tightly crafted boxes by day
forcing our feral souls to be still.

When we leave our daytime offices
for larger, comfier coffins,
the same spirit we once stifled
rips off its chains of productivity
in favor of a rarefied air full of possibility.

As we soar without any pretension of advancement
we forget that other life that appears with an overly punctual sun.

Through no fault of their own, we fault these day to day doldrums
through bleary red eyes while the true culprit of freedom
waits amongst the thermals until the night breaths anew.

— The End —