Monday, January 18, 2010


Magic looses it's momentum
Like fire on wet grass
The reality of death
Sinks in slow
Like a slow burn cigarette
Why should yours flat line
While my pulse remains
Pushing toxins to my finger
tips and blasting needless, numbing nothings
into my spinal suffering
I am a broken leaf nothing
Touch me with your eyes, limp and brittle on the pavement
Touch me with your fingers
I crack and crumble
Into nothing

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