"apricots" poems
he drank wine all night of the
28th, and he kept thinking of her:
the way she walked and talked and loved
the way she told him things that seemed true
but were not, and he knew the color of each
of her dresses
and her shoes-he knew the stock and curve of
each heel
as well as the leg shaped by it.
and she was out again and whe he came home,and
she'd come back with that special stink again,
and she did
she came in at 3 a.m in the morning
filthy like a dung eating swine
and
he took out a butchers knife
and she screamed
backing into the roominghouse wall
still pretty somehow
in spite of love's reek
and he finished the glass of wine.
that yellow dress
his favorite
and she screamed again.
and he took up the knife
and unhooked his belt
and tore away the cloth before her
and cut off his *****
and carried them in his hands
like apricots
and flushed them down the
toilet bowl
and she kept screaming
as the room became red
GOD O GOD!
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
and he sat there holding 3 towels
between his legs
no caring now wether she lft or
stayed
wore yellow or green or
anything at all.
and one hand holding and one hand
lifting he poured
another wine
32.1k
apricots and cigarette smoke:
your smile is infectious.
heat leaking through the little slit in the
window: melt like cool frosters on
a hot summer day - melt
into me
lets become solvent
in this little
car; (I wouldn't mind.)
combine together, like our parents
and parents before them. molecular;
everything, anything -
we are science.
I am not afraid, it is
you
who takes the air from
my gasping lungs; - look!
at his beauty; divine.
© A. Leigh
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC
They set off from white rocks,
red geraniums, blue tile,
and let the green sea
lift and drop their ships far above the white foam waves.
The stony islands that were home
were swallowed in minutes by the hungry Atlantic
but they hunted the big fish,
the giant whales with human eyes
who rolled and sang and swam
in oceans a continent away.
They came from Sao Jorge, Sao Miguel
Faial, Pico, Terceira, Horta -
Nine island emeralds set in a black volcanic chain,
neither of the old country nor the new:
Halfway there and halfway gone -
secret jewels of the Portuguese sailors.
They sailed into unknown waters,
south around tropical shores
where dragons smoked and writhed on the rocks
and birds with brilliant red and yellow plumage
rose in clouds around their heads.
Then north, and north, north again
to colder waters
where sea lions barked and lunged
at the strange massive wooden beast
that coursed the waters,
strung with brown bodies swaying
on the lines and cursing the sails.
North still they swept
casting contemptuous eyes on
the cheap turquoise waters and monstrous slow turtles
of the Sea of Cortez.
Coming up from the desert, past the palms and the yucca,
the Joshua tree and Spanish daggers,
they chased their smooth grey prey,
riding the vast Pacific on their wooden island,
herding the leviathans onto their spears,
adventurers with an audience of only
gulls and sky and seal.
Until they sailed too close one day
to a rock-strewn shoreline
and saw the golden hills.
Gnarled oaks like grandmothers from home
with orange poppy jewels at their feet,
missions strung like beads in a ruby marked rosary.
The boats slowed, ****** in by a Scylla of soil
rich and brown and loamy
waiting to be seeded with grapes and apricots
peaches, avocados, lettuce, alfalfa,
fertile and heavy with sweet promise.
And the whales sang and the lions barked and the gulls cried
but the sailors were entranced, encharmed, ensorcelled.
The treacherous sea, the mysterious deep, the stony jewels of home,
called and wept
and waited in vain for the sailors
- beached and grounded -
cutting not waves but earth,
tracking seasons not whales,
seduced by dirt.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
Post-azure, cloud splashed sky,
washes with the suns descent,
breaking into melodies of sunset.
Fracturing into a blush,
the richness of the spectrum
makes itself known.
On a tangent of change,
amorphous clouds bleed
amber glow
and bittersweet combinations
of reds and yellows.
Vermillion streaks through,
and a few cloud folk turn titian,
like sumptuous surreal apricots
rotting in the sky,
that seem to augur
encroaching darkness.
Billows on the horizon
leak crimson,
like spilled wine on table cloth,
and pucker out
like blooms of flaming roses.
Fire refracted
coloured cousins of the sun
are dancing all about.
Here is the anthem
of wild transformation.
Here is cause
for quiet celebration.
Here at this fluent juncture.
Here at the closing of day.
The whole of the ocean below,
is the skies tremendous mirror.
It's reflection is variegated,
into variations a thousandfold.
Multitudinous, and ever differentiated,
distortions of above
ride the crests of waves.
Each apex is a new story.
Each new story,
just as soon as it is told,
comes crashing into trough.
Each finale is the ****** of beginning.
The dynamic roar
of the oceans ever-changing topology
is rife with meaning.
Colossal symphonic wonders,
the primordial song,
releasing upon: the uni-
verse continual,
sending the manifest
to move, with the give and strain
of immaculate design.
Here ensconced
between the safety of light
and the mystery of night.
Here at the oceans edge.
Above, shades of catalina-blue, in conversation
with the outer most cosmic-black
dismiss earlier brighter hues.
Tinged by the infinite nature of space,
the jeweled dome darkens.
Overhead, the first stars appear,
sky transparent to beheld blackness.
Luxuriant, pulling horizon, attracts
violet into it's unfolding theatrics.
Bloodied clouds turn purplish, then black,
a darkening rawness allures,
decaying with vivid beauty,
tragedies of a rouged romance
drug down into shadows play,
searingly alive, extraordinarily actual.
And then, the hush of dusk.
Darkness is felled, like silence.
Scintillating stars
strengthen in the nights
surrounding abyss;
giving radiance definition.
Dynamic Beauty
Lives In Transition,
Oppositions
Compliment.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 9:49 PM UTC
She has a heart of cedar color
And dreams in shades of peony and lotus stems.
She leaves the smell of cyclamen and ripe apricots
Behind her,
Those who are crying in the shadows of Magnolias
Are finding a shelter within her.
Sometimes I imagine that I'm the sea foam
That is touching her ankles
And the air that envelops her lips,
Absorbing her every move,
That is reflected in the mosaic of her pupils.
Her thoughts are sleeping in the depths of my veins,
In every pore that absorbs her voice
I can hear her breathing.
I remain frozen in her existence
And in the contours of her shadow,
All of what I have seek so far
I have found in every thing on which she brushed.
After all,
I'm just a pale reflection of the stars
In her night sky,
The dying firefly in her garden
Of white poppies and wild rose hips.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 6:08 AM UTC
it was the Cubist who created the space and color that
everywhere today assails our eyes
in uniform architecture and monotonous
design; the various branches of modern art
through tedious & exhaustive experiment
& research creating a massive cultural sinkhole
whose banal discoveries unveil for all the sameness
of form, line and color;
Quote from Gorky's 'Camouflage', 1942: I like the heat;
the tenderness; the edible; the lusciousness;
the song of a single person
in a bathtub full of water.
I like Ucello, Grunewald, Ingres,
the drawings and sketches for paintings
of Seurat and that man Pablo Picasso;
I measure all things by weight.
In text for MoMA, describing the 'Garden in Sochi' - series,
26 June 1942
I love Mougouch, Gorky's wife. What about papa Cézanne;
I like the wheat fields, the plow, the apricots,
those flirts of the sun. And bread above all.
My lever is the purple; About 194 feet away
from our house in Armenia on the road to the
spring my father had a little garden with
a few apple trees which had retired
from giving fruit;
this garden was identified as the _'Garden of Wish Fulfillment'_
often I had seen my mother and the other village women
exposing their naked bosoms, taking the soft,
dependable ******* in their hands &
rubbing them on the rocks; above all this
standing an enormous tree all bleached
under the sun, rain & cold, deprived of leaves.
This was the Holy Tree [quoted in 1942]
In text for MoMA, describing the 'Garden in Sochi' - series,
26 June 1942
I don't like that word 'finished'.
When something is finished,
that means it's dead, doesn't it?
I believe in everlastingness;
I never finish a painting – I just stop
working on it for a while.
I like painting because it's something
I can never come to the end of;
sometimes I paint a picture,
then I paint it all out. Sometimes
I'm working on fifteen or twenty
pictures at the same time; I do that
b/c I want to – b/c I change my
mind so often; The thing to do is
always to keep starting to paint;
never finishing the painting [quoted in 1948]
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 4:39 PM UTC
you swallowed prunes as if your life depended on it, and to your mental state, they were better than any gateway drug or needle implanted into your muscles
the rough exterior cracked and ripped apart your lips unforgivably; tearing down your esophagus with the force of a peach pit
you rubbed dried apricots onto your skin as if that could cure you of all your sadness; as if it could take the need to get away and drown yourself
until you were buried deep into the soil and there are flowers nestled into the crooks of your bones and you tasted of sweat, ***** and tears
when at night you sit on the edge of your bed contemplating life or death between sobriety and a drunk that lingers for days on end clinging under your nails
and to all the people who roll their eyes at you and say ‘you’ll get over it’
tell them to **** themselves; tell them that when they see apricots, they see sunshine, but you see death to infinity and beyond;
you see all the broken promises that were whispered into the knots in your back
you see the lily pads of roses that dripped with regrets and words that were never said
words that gripped your lungs like a vice in the back of a car
when you thought of love, you thought of apricot kisses rubbed against your lips;
of rolled up aluminum foil
of lighters drained of their fluids in a week time
of the close to boiling water that invaded your personal space and reached the tip of your nose
and of peach kisses from Georgia that dug its way into you; promising another day
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:20 AM UTC
I am afraid to be afraid too afraid
to be still but still healing still
afraid to open all my heavy doors that
he has seen too much unkempt skin
that I am afraid of him that we
are broken that he was always broken but we are nothing
but bandaged apricots in the rotting August sun and he
is afraid we have too much or not enough time
afraid of us afraid of me afraid to speak but he
breathes hot scorpion-kissed lullabies into
my neck into scarlet corners of my pituitary
poisons all my wearied nerves I used to call him
master used to master our loose laundry I
refused to fold used to master our loose smiles
in front of people I refused to fold for
I used to accept his virulent apologies after business trips
I used to be afraid of him he used to be afraid
of my amphibian temper afraid of how I
waxed and waned through tempestuous waters afraid
that he was always drowning
I am afraid of the dark blue ghosts their red
angry heat I am afraid to eat cartridged
bullets of my own words silver gunpowdered
shrapnels if I eat them all lead like you would
seep into the insides of my abdomen
my insides are unreachable have a little
too much sunshine to carry along when spring
arrives I am scared because the light
comes in with brilliant blazing eyes
and sees everything
October 8, 2014 7:04 AM
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 5:09 AM UTC
my belly grows the size of a bag of apricots
there is a will at the bottom of a lake that needs retrieving
the car sank but the body made it to the shore and changed her name by midnight
come springtime the ice melts and the water is back
crawling upon shy ankles
there are growing pains who find a home between nettles and
the hives of adobe wasps
i never could cohabitate with nature
when they ask at parties where i've been
things that are at rest stay at rest
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 6:20 PM UTC
Nana thinks the magazine is the devil.
“THE PEOPLE WHO DREW THE BLESSED ****** MOTHER OF OUR LORD AND SAVIOR JESUS CHRIST IN A BIKINI ARE GOING TO HELL.”
Whatever you say, Nana.
When we left my Nana made us tacos and tamales. She gathered all the food in the house to send us off and took all the cash she had and stuffed it in my pocket. She purged the cupboard of all the bananas, plums, nectarines, and apricots and placed them in a bag with two bottled waters a coke, a diet coke and sprite.
She told me that she loved me and that she hated to see me go. That, “I had just gotten there” and that she would “miss me so much.”
Before we left she sent me with a card that was “very important”. It was a picture and a coin embossed with my guardian angel that she bought at the church gift shop.
My nana loves me more than anything else in the world.
My nana still calls you my friend.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
Vanilla vowels
and creamy colored consonants
Naughty or nutty nouns
of almonds, apples, apricots
Aphrodisiac adjectives
and very berry adverbs
Passion fruit phrases
pirouette like peaches in thought
A pomegranate patter
that pronounces a pronoun
Or perhaps in veiled vines
velvet verbs purr
Wondrously whipped
words of love
Salacious sentences
with strawberry stirred
A mellowed musk melon
of a metaphor
A salubrious simile
sits like a sapote crown
Amorous alliterative adventures
with romance and raisins
An ooh la la of orange oomph
onomatopoeic sounds
An orchard of the alphabets
in a fruity potpourri of speech
A bearish pearish play and
plum pun on words
The language of love
written with love
In this hash mash
bonhomie
Valentine verse
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 8:56 AM UTC
*Strip into segments the colours of life
At the birth of my sons, loving my wife,
Like the moment of truth when, whilst shivering clear,
I went eyeball to eyeball with that, which I fear.
Like the time when the engine went dead in the plane
And I ditched in the pines to confirm the insane.
When my Father collapsed and died in my arms
And childhood departed with God and his Psalms.
When I first kissed a girl’s soft velvety lips
And felt, with wild rapture, my hands on her hips.
Discovered ripe apricots fresh from the tree
Taste sweeter than nectar collected by bee.
Felt the presence of death compellingly near
Though the body was wracked, the thinking was fear.
Climbed impossible peaks that I dreamt I perceived
To weep the hot tears in a life’s goal achieved.
Laughed loud and long with the wind in my hair
Yet cried when an enemy lost to despair.
Pondered the mystery of what’s round the bend
Concluded beginnings are part of the end.
Compiling the rules to maintain my space
Lie in keeping the oddballs out of my face.
Clasping friends, so few, to my breast
Embracing the true and to hell with the rest.
Committing my time to my one darling wife
And thanking the Gods for this colourful life!*
Marshalg
Sitting in the long summer grasses
3 Decemeber 2012
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 9:34 PM UTC
Animals abolishing apples and apricots,
angry astronauts abandon Abraham's automobile,
algae acting after ant at Ally alligator's aunt's apartment
Aching antsy alpha aardvarks arranging afternoon arguments
After Amanda ate anchors, Anna attacked Alabama
at Abbey Road Alice anounced an aristocrat arriving.
An acceptable antonym!
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 3:32 PM UTC
there are some things,
that just smell so good:
corn freshly shucked, potatoes roasted in campfire coals, carrots fresh from the ground, then washed and stovetop roasted
basted with butter
and lavender honey.
the nape of my toddlers neck,
that clean fresh hopeful little boy smell.
coffee, straight up, freshly brewed
caramel warming,
passionfruit, strawberries, citrus any type, zested. freshly planed fennel curls, mint crushed for a mojito, roast lamb and rosemary gravy.
the smell of planed wood in the palms of my man's hands as i kiss them. frangipani, coconut tanning oil,
earth newly rained upon. popcorn popping, chocolate melting,
jasmine, orange blossoms,
a grove of pine trees.
warm gingerbread and mulled wine.
salt tang on the morning breeze.
the smell that lingers after the lovin.
garlic and ginger in a hot wok.
salt tang on the evening breeze.
prawns all sea salty and
a crisp cold beer.
sandlewood and citrus aftershave lotion on your smoothed cheek.
nectarines, apricots,
a yellow juicy peach,
freshly bitten.
apple scented shampoo daphne & lilac my nana's smell,
bay *** newspaper print and palmolive soap,
my pop's study.
rose petals crushed.
earl grey tea,
toast just before burning damper and cocky's joy
crisp fresh linen warm from the sun.
so many scents, so many smells...
these are my favourites please feel free to add your's, as long as it's clean
and above board.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 7:10 AM UTC
Disentangling abstractedy,
A bee returning crazily along the path of least resistance
Flying home.
Through the orchids, flax and irises
Lilacs dripping promises,
Mist-laced and mapped with honesty
He goes home.
Morning recriminations
Bitter sprinkles in the milk,
Stood there; his mind is wandering to apricots and silk
Desire twisted hungrily,
A door slammed......
home overthrown by silence.
Storm clouds horizon kissing
Dark thoughts of something missing,
........then nothing more.
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 5:06 PM UTC
I am making steel cut oatmeal
Would you care for some?
It is high in soluble fiber
And has essential vitamins and minerals too
Perhaps an avocado
Some raisins or dried apricots
Would be good too
I also have yogurt
Toast and peanut butter
Sugar plum tomatoes too
I could also make you hot chocolate
With whipped cream
Or chamomile tea
If you prefer to drink a bit more healthy
Please enjoy your breakfast with me
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:15 PM UTC
You were freer than a free verse
And even sonnets could not keep you.
Tonight we got drunk on papayas,
Sitting on the sidewalk sipping
drinks, careless laughter
exploding from our mouths when
the moon split itself
Down our throats. In the messy
medley of the night I felt you on
my skin, remember:
How I lost myself in the fine lines
Of your lips where you claim
Your flaws fall into.
How I tried to swallow them like
apricots and how - in almost exact reciprocation
Of the same passion -
your eyelid moves which say:
I love you as much as I love God.
You are four light years away
And tonight I got drunk on papayas.
This is not a poem because
Sonnets could not keep you safe
And free verses compete but lose
Their flame, for
Like a landslide you let love slide,
I let love leave then.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 5:25 AM UTC
I used to hang out with a bunch of food radicals
this was back in ’78 or so
popcorn with brewers yeast, loads of pepos
dried apricots that looked like vaginas
blocks of cheese, raw nuts, 80 grit corn meal
I belonged to food coop and read diet for a small planet
it was a constant indoctrination
as soon as you thought you had this nutrition thing
settled
bam
some new roughage was required
it must have worked
I thought
as I added tofu to a wok filled with seven count ‘em seven
steaming vegetables
this very night
overall I do eat healthy and I always have
now get off my back and make me a double bacon cheeseburger
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
Freedom rang,
bang bang bang
and we traversed the dense foilage
of my Sepia Jungle
Populated by Spirited faeries
Whose lives came and went with the blowing wind.
And Time dissappeared beneath the sublte sunshine
As we entered Apricot Village
Where twisted, sappy leaves gnarled between
Milky white blossoms that decorated fetal fruits,
Whose crowning golden heads pushed petals fresh,
From budding limb,
Now kidnapped by the wind, a lazy sloshing sea of air,
The ground garnished by its aged spices.
It was a village where cottages grew among the Trees.
Devoid of holiness & Dogma, but steeped in the rife Purity of Nature,
No Man was to be seen, rotting fruit about the feet of Trees,
The floors of cottages strewn with Apricot pits, fleshy fruit half eaten
By the Birds, nestled into fertile Earth, and sprouted Life
rising fresh from pichest soil.
We ate of the fruit, now rested in the Golden Afternoon, which
Reached beyond the fringe of Time,
The fleshy pulp of Apricots the strands of bygone Universes,
Which taught us how to slumber there among
The petals and the Wind.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
There, in the light of a summer, long gone, lie shadows of laughter, remnants of love.
There in the dust rings, echos of recall, sunspots flaunt blue yonder above .
Recalling eyes that wept for the fun of it, cried with the tragedy,. Teardrops of crave
Surges of memory washing in wavelets cleansing, scarring, riding the wave.
Oh for that feeling of splendid simplicity running in sand at the surge of the tide
No place to be, no timetable proffered, freedom on little boys giant slippery slide.
Ice creams, apricots, luscious and juicy frolic with maiden’s free blonde, tousled hair,
Frothy short petticoats bounce in the sunshine, youth without traces of worry or care.
Breathless in nights of gathereing twilight, breathless falls this magical air,
Wondrous in such lilting beauty, soft hanging tones of Autumn fair.
There in the light of summer gone, shadows of laughter, remnants of love,
Memories flood to overflowing, indigo glints the starlight above.
M.
The Satins of Autumn Approacheth…
February 21 2019
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 11:28 PM UTC
While waiting at the river Styx, in twisted time untaught,
from branches of the gallows tree, in recollections wrought,
your soul, a beggar’s blanket, hangs in crazy quilted knots,
with dangling pearls and diamond studs in dripping crimson clots,
midst gaping wounds and bulging eyes like fouling apricots,
for wrapped like rope around your throat’s the Reaper’s grim garrote.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 9:48 PM UTC
Umbrella green rain upset harmless stripped
And because of thunder children snapped their fingers like jazz enthusiasts
Milk obsessed rats rant and render their own insanity
Passing three winged' angels in the street flowing serenity
Friends are best left in the mind and in the heart
But do not stray too far from them
For loneliness is a cold touch without love or hate
We are lucky to be feeling anything at all
The dead lie still
The weak do too
The strong move
The courageous seek
The other side of
The hill
Music moves underneath the fog of the sun
Near the flower garden the tourists roam free
A minds eye is a terrible thing to waste
Getting to know yourself through sleep is revealing
When is the next time for tea?
Your gibberish speaks things to me
That nothing in this world has ever done
What is the color of genius?
What is the feeling of epiphany?
Where do the dead flowers grow?
Packaged up
Sent off
Read up
The critics scoff
Growing old near the swamp the shanty town sways
Old culture rusts blood brown and neon orange
The bills are on the fridge and being cashed yesterday
Another day passes as the clock strikes 13
A friend brushes past another in a party and they smile
They do not speak for there is history there
Marking calenders for future experiences in all planning aside
There is nothing like chaos to introduce you to yourself
As I walk down the sidewalk, pass the cleaners, I see fiction
Moving under the trees, breathing the sea, I see narration
Talking to the barista, laughing lines, I see dialogue
Shakespeare penned the highest and the lowest of us all
And I think Bukowski was right there with him too
Watch a marble roll down the street
Observe each crack and the path it takes
We are very much the same way
Define your cracks, your bumps, your potholes
And see where they have taken you
See what became of you after the hard times.
This year
Apricots will writhe in the trees
Like a worm on a fishing hook.
The sea is foaming at the mouth,
And we are children
All over again.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
Looking at the rainbow
The colours envelope your mind
Rubies, ambers and turquioise
Peach skins and orange rind.
Strawberries and lemons in the sky
with apricots inbetween.
A strip of violets in the cloud
Like tea from Devon with cream.
A kind gentle soul emerges
with roses in abundance.
Petals scatter on her path
and fairies lead in dance.
She is wonderful, she is graceful
words without end.
She is a light shining on my dull day
She is Sally, my new friend.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:54 AM UTC
i am nine
and learning
by osmosis
secret women's business or
the art of pie making
production line style
to the uniniated
i sit perched on a stool
in the corner, out of the way
boxed in by fruit
it is a heady place to be
as scents of apricots(bought)
blackberries and apples mingle
sweet woody and exotic,
with the citrus tang
of zested lemon that sits
in an ever growing
pryamid on the table.
ginger and cinnamon motes
float in the oven warm air
and flour clouds the room
and settless in drifts
and dusts the collection of bowls
on the table
my mother aunt
and mrs blunt,the neighbor,
bustle about the room....
my aunts girth designates her as chief baker
and she rolls out pastry with
gusto...fat arms swinging
penduously, humming to herself.
mrs blunt is the pie filler
adept at judging the mix
and making the gelatonious
gooey syrups filled with sugar
and spice, chopped crab apple
and lemon zest.
mother is the friuter, she peels
destones and cores
chopping up apples, apricots and peaches...
leaving berries and cherries intact(sans pips)
and then later she mans the ovens
watching for the golden crust
and bubble of pie juice...
before removing
them to cool on poppa jacks
old oval dining table...
me I sit in wonder,
snacking on fruit,
and balls of leftover dough
swooning with the smell
of stewing friut.
Next year my true apprenticeship will start....
Until then, I listen to the murmer of gossip
the passing of secrets,
the bonding of these women....
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 5:00 AM UTC
The patches of autumn colors
engraved on the land
outweighing the brown soil like
an anchor sinking deep
every soul losing its will to survive
as it dries up into the color of the earth
the smell of the apricots and dried leaves, old vintage keys
rises up like grey smoke from the chimney
in a futile attempt to grab safety and
hold it in its sinewy hands
hoping that it would save them
from the beginning of the end. (c)
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 3:47 AM UTC