November 12, 2009
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A painted coat of dust
wrapped around us.
Mummified, our purpose is sealed.
Our hollers go inward, as we are hushed.
The squeals seep down our throat.
Tangled and knotted.
A growth in our core.

Black wire knots?
They seem black.
For the intertwining darkness has been mistaken!
Time has no reverse as it meshes
darker and darker closer and congested.

White! The clock heals.
The wire becomes yarn of a rich burgundy.
The rich burgundy begins to crack.
Chipping, revealing gold,
a gold that’s almost white.

It has purpose.
A notion from the dust covered corpse.
The white has set us free. We wonder.
Our gleam, never forgotten.


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