23/10/2006 9:46:14 AM

Unbreathing

The hell winds drift over

to the cyrstal gates,

seeping in the cracks.

They have come for a visit;

to check out the competition,

to see the violet brush strokes

of a cloudless sky, painting

a picture of the world in minimalist

ulysees, never seeing the world end.

The english have come and gone,

hundred years, they have come to be

and blown away with the wind stopped thigh,

little pots of daisies in pink and white,

flowered high with gifts of fate and fortune,

fortresses of solid silver like dynamite to the soul in wild

hazards unbreathing.