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By ralph

Sun, 17 Jun 2007
  • 1240 reads
 

Wanting ways
to measure
the broken pulses
of her junkyard mind
is as fitful
as walking on needles

Where sleep ends
her terror will begin
for she is a scored land
that trips and swallows
in on itself
folding reason

and pressing our world

Certificate U
Poem
renaissance
Autobiography
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