Sacrosanct

November 25, 2011
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Blue ink
O’er the hills to
a Utopian fantasy.
Curtains strewn on the floor,
windows wide open,
we fade into our
dystopian realities.
Lamenting dreams of
Baudelaire-esque angels
-circling gargoyles on rooftops.
Dreaming ginger
-bread fantasies... ‘tis the season.
Searching for a place
Where is my place?
Down streams, through dreams
I wade.
Tasting the bittersweet carnival

words, ardent like fire and
lust
on a cool winter’s evening.
You can’t find
magic, it’s inevitable,
of course.





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