Monday, November 10, 2008
When atrocities are in the house of never land,
Fought are the priests we stole from the sand
Of the desert, and the land of snow, as they are cold
And heavy with reward;
My sentence is old, small and tall, like a poem
Of great wonder and deceit.
This craft spells crafts over the page,
With atrocities in your own home.
The rest is vital,
And sadness reigns.