Thoughts of a dying humourist

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Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Goodnight, mine.
the backlight fades as titanium etches a shadow into my hand
but youre asleep and so am i

ripen this pomegranate of games
relieve it sorely from my mind
because you mean too much
voicelessly evading caress and touch

dawn presses the horizon awake
and day brings nowt new weather nor pain.
just the trite routine of everydayness
and the persistant dream of a life less
down

Anni
15:27
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