October 26, 2010
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Sitting, broken,
Bruised and old.
Tearing at the seams of
The inside.
A pressed orchid
In silenced time.
A teardrop cascades onto the page,
Seeping through a heart
Of porcelain.
Crimson ink dipped into the well,
Tip of the feather to the canvas,
Guide me.
This heart is shattered,
The shards lay still
In your cold hands.
Painted gold and then left
In pouring rain.
Why cry any longer
If it does not heal this
Heart of glass?
This aged book lay
To where time ceased
To be.


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