Friday, October 13, 2006


Our world is a weak place
of towers and ruin,
tears, taste.
a sun comes up
in an old man's face,
happy to hurt
when the stars race.
turn of grace,
these letters
to the same place,
without cataclysm, nor trace.

1 comment:

bereweber said...

this is such a neat little piece!
has great cadence too
and the ideas, the words
the length
the ruins the sun
the face
and your mixture of words
very nice!