Sunday, December 14, 2008

Labyrinth.

Ariadne, tyrant-loved poet,
a man you never knew has melted
in the sun.

An obscure mind has denied
the existence of memory.

Someone looked at paintings for hours.

I wrote myself
out.

I peeled the pencil lines right off the page,
like thread.

1 comment:

Rose said...

I've left you a note on my blog today:

http://mysticmooma.blogspot.com/2008/12/butterfly-award.html