Tuesday, September 17, 2013


Turbulent streams of nascent thoughts
turn in to whirlpools - where
the blues and the crimsons
the chrome and the lilacs
diffuse - in to
aromatic nostalgia
the time when each had
it's own way on the canvas
it's mark in the story.
All coming to an orifice
of rusty discharge
that smells like pain
and sounds like suffocation.

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