Monday, January 11, 2010

from Somewhere There is a Forest

Scuttled rubbish and lightened
ardent valse of Autumnal
flux. Muscled runners flit by
chests a’heaving sculptural
as a kingdom of blood of
future joy, of future love
dense as close collapsing stars.

1 comment:

Justin said...

Scarred reason in the hope of minced noise meeting a new meaning. Flakes of the next season sitting in the sky, waiting for us in the whittled blood of time.