Your a fever
a rocky mountain filled with voices and symphonies.
and your a muse to the world, a goddess of the spoken word
and your only 17 only a young and shifting sandy soul
turning in the time of verses
dusty fleeting blurbs on worn wooden tables.
and your a piece of powered chalk
so walk me on the moss that lines your road
your life aligned with the garden fence
the gate is broken but i can still see you through the gaps
the spaces in the wood and the roots that line your route
are you a high way or a local road?
are you a thruway or a dirt path?
are you filled with weeds or are you naked?
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Asleep Inside A World Of Dreams
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