"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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