- i -
.
there is no trace of the angel
who once lied there.
his white blanket cast off
by his red-hot toes,
he flopped about till
it all melted away,
his presence no more reliable
than a winnipeg winter.
and now the girl believes this:
there is nothing sacred about love,
after all.
2 comments:
:-((
Very good. These bouts of reality fade fast.
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