Sunday, September 12, 2010

We are as we make ourselves.

And with his pen writes the red rose
into and through it's own seed and sense.
Spattered spectacularly
under bassment blast
and graff artist flash
those DJ's ain't got nothing on him.

And with his pen writes the rose into bloom
at will the red'll drain away
black ink burst them old petals into blue
stacked pages smoldering
to the wind of a NEW DAY.

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