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Post by Bobby Slais on Dec 17, 2007 12:49:00 GMT -5
His hands, hard and ugly, a bout colorless, in the fog of rain. That night cracked like thunder, her eyes, lightening filled with regret.
Skin can feel, felt the transfer inside, the heart has been beaten blood brown and blue, still rushing red like a swollen river after rain.
There’s a certain stone, stone old, hardened glacier smooth but burdened, teetering on the bank. Envious.
The decent is over, never to climb. One quake or rumble, a bit more erosion awash down the bluff, or a fist slam of anger, it will tumble.
Sinking, the sunken, the bottom is hard reaching, tumbling the forever tumble, down until the days of endless drought.
When the river turns a dry bed of stone, days are hard and ugly, nights, filled with regret.
Bobby 2007
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