Thursday, January 25, 2007

the question

old man, tears are for young boys
for the passing of our days
when at last we know they're few
am i a dream to you
have you shrunk to just a weepy husk
swaying in the garden of the dead
rocking on your floundered ship
here with the pools of shadow

have your dreams wrapped you
twisted your mind between
the living hours and its lies
let's stop and read these stories
cut in burial stones

do you remember now


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