Monday, May 2, 2011


The dust weeps.

Torrents cannot heal its rending, for

The Curse fingers its way past elements.

All the breathing fight and collapse,

Souls sighing thunder over the state of things.

Grasped pleasures dissolve to cold ash

As time takes and pain shakes

What was only meant for here

And now – in this dismal labor room,

The sweaty, straining City groans loud for

The last re-making.

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