Sunday, March 10, 2002
Laying broken, I could ask how often the present mirrors the past hands that cradle a sun-kissed rose so often are pricked in its wind-danced throes let me bleed until sorrow is through with lowered head to prove my sadness is true spirit drained for despair to drink 'til living white petals bathe scarlet to pink for it is not rare for my soul to taste scorn how the heart aches quietly at another thorn. |
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in?scrip?tion (n-skrip-shun)n.
the facts.
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