I pen my thoughts
upon the bottom of a hidden lake
that reflects a moon,
in the way old men shake
with quivering lips
that worry bead
each any every breath
that zoetrope lives mislead.
I too rise each day to a cellophane sun,
that tricks and flutters
vertigo dreams
upon a bed of Hazelnut wings.
Dec 22, 2010
Dec 22, 2010 at 6:46 PM UTC
I pen my thoughts
upon the bottom of a hidden lake
that reflects a moon,
in the way old men shake
with quivering lips
that worry bead
each any every breath
that zoetrope lives mislead.
I too rise each day to a cellophane sun,
that tricks and flutters
vertigo dreams
upon a bed of Hazelnut wings.
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