fragmented fragrance,
odour of our day,
slaves to the luminare
we burn in the dark

white lines to speed by
fermentation brakes
pursuit of the opaque
trying to break the clock

ticking slave master
drum beating our oars
bent backs and whip cracks
thralls to art and money

outside stress, no pity
fake the smile, carry on
sweat it out, din of the hand.
doom of man. second by second

11/02/2007

Posted on 11/03/2007
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