January 30, 2009
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Her hair is screaming like a marigold trying to
Escape the soil.
Her breasts are like tears fallen from her bright blue eyes.
The sky,
It rains souls like hers.

In her head, the world is nebulous,
Like a light shone into the pure fog.
She's meditation amidst white noise,
The final shot missed with poise,
Christ resurrected.
Again, he will die.

Am I the answer?
Can I make her purpose clear,
Like a whisper in the ear?
Why is her life so protected?

Maybe, if she is just like enough,
Answers will thunder downward,
Like a spiral of power.
Is the answer in the benevolent hand of
guarded by two vixens
With hair of gold and eyes of snow?

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