Sometimes, I write poems.
Monday, September 27, 2010
One nerve ending from oblivion we stand or sit
lie or walk, a misfiring synapse from gone.
He said what follows just before he was.
Clouds passed over the eyes that had been
a life of sky, mine raining on his left hand.
As it briefly tightened
he described what we would say was a fly
buzzing -- an erratic path down what seemed
the hallway of another world.
c. Ciprianowords Inc., 2010
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