Wednesday, 13 April 2011

Marked With Death

Leaves are my green corset,
they flutter to the dance
of the wind.

I grasp the twigs
in my bare hands,
the book in my lap
feels so empty,
there are no words.

I intend to decorate the book
with nature.

I press the flower into the pages,
I blink at them with eyes fully

I can see words.

The flower wilts to the side,
colors fade,
they smear into
corners of the page.

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