Wednesday, March 04, 2009


I listen to the clamor of a broken chime,
Fingers trying to recreate a broken rhyme.

I used to feel the verse I borne,
But words fell dead in their prime.

Living each moment was I, in the past,
A zombie I move in the frozen time.

I trace and retrace the steps I did tread,
Groveling for marks in grunge and grime.

I suffer not from dementia I know,
Stuck up within my own sweet slime.

Too long has “MIRAGE” for limitations argued,
What follows now is some dead dry rime.

concentric spirals

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