5.28.10 – 3.06

and we find that honest
contentment
is rarely achieved

i want to stay hidden
in the walls
white washed
and void of faces

all we can picture
ourselves are as lifeless
bodies void of anguish

knives protruding
from naked breasts
and darkened eyes
glazed with tacit death

hush quiet rest
coo the feathered
morning doves

.55.friday

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