Monday, November 10, 2008


Sat back and wrote
about her horizons shining bright and
her lullabies sung slow
And the thoughts her head tried
to control
Restlessly wrote
telling stories of the south
the lost and never found
inside her palm
And the futures she built along the way
with a calm advice to just

Then got up and talked alone
to the people now long gone
and the sweethearts made of stone
along the ashtray
And spoke to her in the gentlest way
'will you ever return
to the life that you made true and sad and crazy
and yours'
while ideas came right behind the shoulder

But not today,
the ink is over

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