Blind Fold Poem by david gerardino
Blind Fold
WHEN the flies hang their
hats, this love is dead.
WHEN a stitch is torned
out, this love is dead.
WHEN we blind fold our
words, this love is dead.
WHEN you become a stranger,
this love is dead.
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5/3/2024 8:00:10 AM # 1.0.0.1119
