i slipped on the noose left hanging from the wrists of boys who held every ounce of
|
sadness they could summon to sleep and draw dreams that streamed down their faces.
|
the seats are empty and eyes are frozen, cut me from this tree called time and put
|
me back on the shelf until i can smile again. the fathers of compassion have left me
|
thier bastard son orphaned in houses of wind where we both sit and cry as we rip out
|
the last page of every book we ever called a lover.
|
|
-----------------
|
Sporus In Theatre
|
| Rifles At Recess |
