Oddness
A spledid little thing
Wanting, Demanding more
Than my tatered concienceness can offer.
Life
Lived still-framed before my eyes
Each picture framing a moment
A half-remembered living Ansel Adams
The masses turn a brief wandering eye
at the liquid tangle of allergies falling from my cheeks.
Or so they tell themselves.
Will these white-hot flames ever stop falling from my eyes?
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
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