Saturday, June 6, 2009

it's a face i want to turn to me with all the warmth of the sun:

despite various ominous sightings,
of hunting birds, a swoop of vultures, a black cat staring
at me through my window,

my own doom all spelled out for me by candles;

despite all that i know that i'm willingly walking
in the direction that tugs constantly
at my limbs

of course i am
have i any choice?

a rhetorical question,
the answer is no.

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