Monday, October 3, 2011

Quills

The writing on the wall reads like
Carnage mixed with white wash
Seeping into the cracks dripping
Into words then fading thru the
Light of day 'til it finally becomes
Nothing more than insinuation
Just tea leaves in the bottom of
A chipped cup somebody once
Rescued from a junk shop & I’ve
Not the gift of interpretation of
Speaking the language of angels
Amongst demons & such as in
Habit this world with only black
Ink in their veins to compose
Ruinous obituaries & stumped
Teeth to worry the entrails of
Unanswered prayers

KE

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