Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Devoid










78




Customs are perfumes
The fruit of a million swift sermons
Torn together flowing out in simple things
The money wife stepping into the air,
The skin changes a million times but lets out the
Flower of its soft eye- it won’t be held responsible
For the flowing fluttering silence,
The long rest between notes or
The sinking beneath dank waves.

No comments: