Author: Chris Sabato
Crabs hustle on the edge of a winter cold sea.
The drenched and dry beach sleeps.
My tounge wonít reach my heart.
Wonít puncture my heart.
Wonít knife my heart.
Wonít eviscerate my hard boney heart and
evict just one wooden dream with fury or tears so I can re-erect in fire.
Moon , white.
And then time whisks it all away.
Iím just a figure fraught with my mind thinking of today.
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