Monday, October 16, 2006

Fool

And while you press forward toward the exit, hurried in insecurity and the fear of betrayal, I maliciously pray for what I already sense is your stench. That you really run away from the painful recognition that your sunrise is on your back, and the terror that chases at your heals will envolope you with such darkness that the weak fairy lights you called stars will choke you with black.

Then maybe my roses will bloom again.

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