Tuesday, May 25, 2004
salvaged from the shredder
I knew it. I knew I was writing and not listening to that client briefing. 3-month old poems still deserving a debut.

Feel the murmurs.
They dance behind the trees.
And the branches sway, unknowingly.
To the songs of stabbing crows.
And the wind does not know,
murmurers they be-
that blackness is upon them.
As trees fall to their dance.

Even in this vast nothingness
I could not write.
Could not say.
It mutes me more. Lures me more-
not to say.
A word.
dezphaire strapped in @ 2:43 AM  


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Location: Philippines

Sometimes bored. Most of the time oddly alive. Phobic of butterflies. Creatively suppressed. Hungry for coffee and shoes. This is my subconscious talking... at times interrupted by my reality.

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soundtrack of the moment
Jealousy, turning saints into the sea. Swimming through sick lullabies, choking on your alibis. But it's just the price to pay, Destiny is calling me. Open up my eager eyes 'cause I'm Mr. Brightside -- "Mr. Brightside" The Killers
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