Saturday, November 08, 2008


I slink past the unsuspecting,
I steal subtle gazes and telepathic whispers.
Where this poem turns to prose,
And where stoic lines are blurred,
I shall never know.
I tiptoe down a noiseless hall
That echoes sentiment with fraying zest.
I hum;till my song is slurred,
Till the earth turns to quicksand on its spurs.
Where sense turns to a senseless drizzle,
And rattling prattle dwindles to mournful scorn
I shall never know.

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