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This here, in my hands, is nothing more than an hour glass. Time paves each grain of sand and marks the hours pass. As each grain stumbles through a maze of consciousness, It begins to identify itself with the others.
Haiku, to poets, Is as Ballroom to dancers: Form gives confidence.
7 Days Later I wore your clothes for the rest of the week, even your baggy floral underwear. I wore your bathrobe, hoping to be clean,
is it the sweetness of a falsified mem’ry or truly sickly sweet charms? have i imagined this air, calcified in stone covered in velvet, moss harms  
I groan as anguish rips through me, Starting in my feet,         A dull ache felt deep
An artist’s mind is often swallowed by indigenous thoughts. Trying to balance ones conceptions on a fine thread.
(Read in triplets, so "Tri-pl-et, Tri-pl-et; Ti-be-li; In-to-the light-comes-the ...") ~ ~ ~ Chaos, disorder, and darkness, beyond lies a great expanse of wilder and here there is naught a trace of clearness or form
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