I hear the echo of the scream;
how I wish this wasn't real,
how I wish this was a dream.
Painting the foliage, as I pass,
with iron-smelling vitality.
::clicking tips of tongues::
* * *
How was your holiday?
It was alone.
It tears my soul that I hurt you so badly.
[23:54|05.12.011] ©c.thomas.carter
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