December 13, 2010
By , Whitelaw, WI
White knuckles fold o’er my mute,
And I hurl it to shatter stars-
When all too late I realize they lit my path,
And I gaze in a briny creek of tears.

It ripples as does my face,
With the tide echoing outward.
My mute’s projected sorrows whisper death,
And on those soft wings I fancy…

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