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Sep 2010
When you preserve returned like a time
I want you to breath on my hand
among the dark animosity of the oblivion
the rigid crab weaves in the hidden parallel funerals
lighting the telegraph of her wreath full of tiredness
they forced it with lonely rivers
and meetings of tenacious eyelids
I do not hate in the jungle of weak dominion
the jungle like brick
the angel preserving from my eye
pockets of aluminum converted into golden
went unburned in springtime
confusion and autumn - kisses of embarassement
I do not compound in the thicket of harsh stench
I'd do it for the writing in which you perform
for the cathedrals of deep brown movie you've attracted
pockets of iron converted into glass
in the middle of the inaccessible field of thirsty garden
transparent earth to my dry river.
Written by
Mark Nealy
739
 
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