Friday, May 4, 2012

creativity 1.9


You could talk about the fibers of your being forever. How they form to create a perfect blemish. You are in the garden pulling up the weeds, conjuring another demon. You hands fold into little winds. The blind slats dusty with neglect, secluded from the other passengers. We tumble together down the road, feeling our kidneys. You could draw up into yourself without warning. There would be no alert, no signal flare to warn the troops. You would come down from the mountain ready to kill. You put the snake to sleep and he dreams of sunshine.

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