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Dec 2012
There isn't much sky
in this pallid, stale cocoon
no greens nor greys, no electric branches
searing fragile, barren walls.
But the heady, sagging scent of moisture
suggests a storm--
                                                         ­                                  yes, there was once me:
a turbid bloom, an opportunist
exhausting avidity in one overarching spill.
As I rolled through your gutters,
flippant and bleeding into everything,
you rose with the dryness of the day
and spoke of your immurement,
the feebleness of my mold and mildew.
i wish that i could inspire you. i have run out of tricks.
poem 2 from "favorite words in the English language" impromptu collection
Paris Adamson
Written by
Paris Adamson
1.3k
   vircapio gale
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