}
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.

PRANCE
Feel the murmurs.
They dance behind the trees.
And the branches sway, unknowingly.
Obliviously.
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.

EMPTY SHORES
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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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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