Wednesday, March 11, 2015


Shelved with my other selves,
I look out, and wonder at my predicament:
my pages are voiceless, and nothing has reached
the room of no echoes.
I am dying in dry glue
no wetness to my struggle
found on rectangular deserts,
never branching for the cure of time and space.
What animates me is death:
the disintegration of my binding.

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