Tuesday, March 13, 2007


It’s quiet here, but not serene
there’s murmuring behind the screen
an air of restless apprehension
crowds the room with things unseen—
things that no-one dares to mention
silent, bone-wracked, aching tension
hearts in poisoned tetany.
A bitter dose; they say that gentian
heals; that scalpels cut you free.
That pain is sharp, but misery,
dull misery, will wear you down
to powdered stone and dull debris.
Closed windows fear the open street.
Better broken glass and bleeding feet.

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