Friday, August 26, 2011


When will these voices inside stop listening? 
Keep a turn to the rusted spring, a ruffled winter 
quenches not thirst of feathered innocence

The mirror has a hidden face, memories of centuries 
and painted dreams will not reveal the shades of ash 
laden stink of twisted minds 

So gently amble in the corner of the dark, touch 
not the tears of the fog, will you confront the 'I'
quivering and trembling as the one who never 
wrote this poem? 

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