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May 2010
I throw my words
into the wind
and wait for them
to return again

I shout my need
into a storm
away from my lips
my words are torn

I whisper my desire
into grey banks of fog
languidly the words escape
and silently again I wait

I sit in silence on a hill
the words I had
have all fled
yet, still they run
through my head
©2009-2010 Michael Acosta
Written by
Michael Acosta
364
     D Conors
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