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Monday, January 18, 2010
THE FALLEN SNOW KINGS…
…fall at my door, the sun’s gold forehead shows in the slow, gristled thaw, the mining of grit from this boundless blank arithmetic. Faces fall at my door, swollen with echoes. I choose not to step outside, to let winter’s cull take me.
1 comment:
Is that ur own written??
if yes this are good
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