I only write when
I see no way out, only
ways in - ways to find
your heart nested in
last year's fallen intentions.
How can I tell you
the shape of summer
fading in the forest verge,
alongside the road
I would rather take
than the one we did, crazy
with small twists of hope?
September 16, 2010 5:37 AM
edited today, changed three words.
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The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.