Sunday, August 21, 2011


In the slow death of light
Rings of blades stab silt-eyes
As sparrows laugh in delight.

The green-crowned kings turn
A blind eye to bloodless murder,
Afraid of dethronement in sky's

Golden touch as warm handed
Breeze rolls baked grey dust
To itch exposed slow wheels

Of bones and flesh not waiting
For an ink-pouring sky to sink
The long heavy road home.

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