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Saturday, December 02, 2006

Untitled #something

Open pages of the gilded page book
Stare back at me from an old photograph
I stole the camera when I was 17 and I don’t care now still
The gold dust stayed on my hands for a day
They defied washing, just as the words of the pages
Wouldn’t wash from my mind

The sun is a subtle violet now
The last of the spectrum as it reclines into night
When last I spoke of that time I had never killed a man
Funny what a few words will do to you
Synapses firing emphatically, trying to find something
Inside the book or my head

I don’t know which/I never will

The grey fading to grey cement laughs at me each night saying

Even I wouldn’t be taken in by a book

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