27 October 2009

1800 miles Of skeletons On The interstate

Lies disperse themselves about me
uperturbed and doubtfully
encroaching upon my history
Strangers hack them down
for shoots of blue to bleed
up, down, left, right then drown

A sword to hone from ink
grasshoppers thoughts to think
in an endless reflection of a King
Yet the heart disease
causes swordsmen to sink
with no beer or winks to please

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