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The beak's vessel plunders     the death of Queen Anne's                                            twisted, soft scent often. Convenience stores                             serve war in boxes.                    A red giant's dimming wit,      a devil in your balloon. The old governors burn their clothes                                     at four,                            four flags,                                                free, fly                                 into home                   where the birds die. My half-century railroads heard the forest is green when the trees are brown and burning and the foliage is just a dream               from the quick,                                               the blind,                       and the ***** that can't dance with the sun like the others. Water running at the end of predestination of an unborn's underbelly.                                                                    Say out to the head board                          begging for attention                                        --rather be a bridge worn and bruised, understood and here. The night is here also,                               not alone, but no words shared. I rather wait for the walker who can't sleep                               to stare at water underneath            and feel warm from its reflection                                           --and can't sleep the entire night.
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Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
From the mind of musical chairs
The beak's vessel plunders     the death of Queen Anne's                                            twisted, soft scent often. Convenience stores                             serve war in boxes.                    A red giant's dimming wit,      a devil in your balloon. The old governors burn their clothes                                     at four,                            four flags,                                                free, fly                                 into home                   where the birds die. My half-century railroads heard the forest is green when the trees are brown and burning and the foliage is just a dream               from the quick,                                               the blind,                       and the ***** that can't dance with the sun like the others. Water running at the end of predestination of an unborn's underbelly.                                                                    Say out to the head board                          begging for attention                                        --rather be a bridge worn and bruised, understood and here. The night is here also,                               not alone, but no words shared. I rather wait for the walker who can't sleep                               to stare at water underneath            and feel warm from its reflection                                           --and can't sleep the entire night.
joseph-s-c-pope
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Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
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