January 2012
15 posts
Through the dawn, behind its pastel painted cold sweat, its invisible borders and mortar and false feelings of separation from the day before, lies a swell.
So subtle, like most things real, it hides in wait for hunters. Lost children who have wandered off the path, run in tangents into the woods, tearing at the heavy things that adorn them, as they run. Feet barely touching the ground.
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