We stalk the dry rim
of the foraged bed
as if it were a clock;
As if our pacing
would wind back
the rusted hands.
As if
the spoiled springs,
groaning and creaking,
would bring us back
to the verdant forest.
We prowl the dusted plain,
silk tigers,
peeling fading cracking
portraits, painted testaments
to gods endurance.
~haze
11/09/99
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