This town
By Chad
Shuffling through grey mounds of memories taken back to places which burn of past lives of faces worn away to desperate grins kissing at depressions cheek, too bashfull to touch lips every movement is remembered, recorded, burned into memory. On every corner, a ghost touches my skin needles of a past, clawing to get in Tied around my waist, the narrow minds beg for freedom remembering the days when the sun once shined here entranced by repetition, the cycle never broken networks of unspoken truths swim lazily underneath touching the surface for air when the drink runs out. Written December 17th, 2001 © on May 27 2002 10:13 AM PST 0 • 10
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"Shuffling through grey mounds of memories..."