Sunday 12/03/2006 01:05:00 AM

He made an example of me. In moments tithed flawlessly. She stood and compared the darkness to her pupil. In its dilation. She pulled the pillow under her head. In a stale seance. Of ghosts not willing to be dead.

She was counting the pages. The riddles they had tried

She was naming them Finger by finger. Assigning reasons to their graves. She was digging with her hands. In soiled basins.

She was deciphering the cryptograms. As if she knew who had said.
What she wanted to hear.

She was reading his mind. Afraid to answer him.

RuKsaK said...

your recent ones have an edge of violence about them to me - or the feeling that a catastrophe is looming. it's something about the peacefulness, but suspicion in the writing.

that's how I see it anyway - and once you've posted it it's mine or whoever else reads it. hope my read was your write

alcoholic poet said...

yes, it is yours. theirs. whoevers. isn't that the point?

to give it away. have someone else own it instead.

have long had the suspicion there's something dreadful trapped in my subconcious dying to get out. perhaps it's getting closer to the surface.

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