Sunday, 13 February 2011

crumpled paper

There isn't a damn thing,
here in the atmosphere stale and painfully clear,
if I stay sitting here, nothing will appear.
If I leave i'll be cold why must the wind chill be so damn severe.
Why won't these days that unfold like old receipts,
a cocoon that awakes to become some inane memory,
such innocuous discovery as to inoculate me against deep thought.

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