"If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear as it is - infinite" - William Blake

Sunday, June 01, 2008

The grave is silent, blue and cold
dark clouds gather above my sealed eyes
my fingers bound with poison ivy
can feel no throb no more...
the epitaph lies a- parching
the ground, a blazing inferno
but i pray silently
and promise to myself
till i quench my thirst
i refuse to bid myself "goodbye"


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