Thursday, June 26, 2008

Poor Immigrant

The perfect fact practiced imperfectly
A proven lie
Motion without velocity
Season without sound

I am still yet the galaxy hurdles past me

Startling acts of reason
Alienated majesties
Flung from the roof
Aspiring to be airborne

I am frustrated with my inability to fly
No matter how great my desire.

Who comes to this poor, dark place seeking reason?

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