"When we can no longer dream, we die" -Emma Goldman

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

changing from rose to globe

everything falls together and all the dead roots slant in the same direction, like a crooked politician.
the color is an ashy brown; dead; barren; never to be fruitful
many things never come to fruition
but few can ever hurt me.
just a few have ever been banished
and the rest make no sense.
few can hurt me and they do, all the time.
this one has no shape, no form, no mold
therefore i know not if it is benign or malignant and i fear i shall never know for
without the form i can never know
and while i am supposed to be able to tolerate the state of not knowing
this is too unbearable and i know not what to do.

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