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Dec 2011
You have the hands of a pianist,
she said.

I disagreed.

For mine are fingers
that articulate not fluid
or comatose melodies,
but speak instead
         with intermittent,

desultory                     sighssss,

wrought upon leaden keys
in the dead of night.

Words hook like a noose around my soul,
hungering to take it
somewhere forsaken,

somewhere unknown.

For every poem I write
           and ends
in a different place.

This one for instance,
was supposed to be about

thomas gabriel
Written by
thomas gabriel
   Sister Sinister, ---, ---, serah, Odi and 1 other
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