Friday, August 26, 2011


Change these tired chores
To crimson bubbling shores
And taste the bitter blood
That rapes my salt.

Take this tattered shell
And crush it into hell
Just tell me that the flood
Is not my fault.

Wind that weary road
To the corners of your soul
And clear the stagnate dust
You have ignored.

Chimes of hollow apple trees
Ringing along the sour seas
Never tasting trust
At the core.

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