Friday, April 11, 2008
Hung
Thinking it is but etched on sand,
The impassioned scribble letters
Foretelling love and forever
Just for legs hung on a tree branch.
But the moon summons the splashing
Of the cold waves upon the shore;
The flowers unmoved upon rock ,
Thriving on the rain and our pain,
Plucking close to never
While legs hang on a branch.
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