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Tuesday, August 8, 2006

Maelstrom.

flitting through the weather,
a tornado's fingertips unraveling
the questions so frayed
the threads cannot sustain the pressure
my atmosphere has induced.

knotting, tangling the layers of
tresses to shield my brain stem
from the heat of its graces.
blinding, the synapses blast,
degree by degree of my own calefaction.

cadence so estranged, its syllables
punish my ears, the canals so
timid, so they convulse,
rupturing like the splinters
of my words, decibles too great.

polluted, the veins reek
stymied in the mire of only
my own intellect's adulteration
of the elation and forlornness, leaving
the fragrance of sacrifice to be decay.

pink silk, those flashes,
flesh that doesn't even say good bye,
searching for the pin to pull,
to free the serene ministry from this annihilation
but i was erased long before this, doll found dead.

marked but not listed,
these confessions palpitate still,
words that were never my own
gawk through their finality but wither sage
with their faulty resolve.

a world looming, diminishing the flickers
of sun my quivering hand collected,
the violets trailing downstream.
trees, so tense with their talons,
fall down around me.

depicted as language indecipherable
to the culture beyond my woe,
walls, nude, with exceptions
narrate the scripture my matter has disposed,
questions atrophied with the atmosphere.
Lola Laa
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