Saturday, March 17, 2012

Naked Eye

Perfect picture.
but,
Canted.
Somehow.
Beams of
Yellow light
cut through
monotonous fog.
Disfigured grace.
Useless.
Rows of
grey tunics,
Bark their
repulsion.
Their motto.
In case of
doubt:
Set fire,
burn it
down.
What is left...
Charred liquid,
Spirits.


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