at 2am peacocks often cry. they are shrill,
one enters the night's tunnel. all is quiet
and warm, lamp glows. old heavy books bring terror
but time ticks by. till same
all moments they feel, and whether a shroud or a sheet.
but he will pick it, and not open it; he will not
keep it for finding's sake. He will make his own one and then
time shall flow again, again.

Will she know how time was not dead? never?

04/21/2010

Posted on 04/21/2010
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