Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Morning Poem



























By myself.
Warmth feeding through the fan.
I cling on to the wet towel.
Digging my nose into the damp scent.

Childlike. Bunched.

Morning hair. Drips.
Still.
No more shivers.
I have lost my way.

Soul dictated by dreams.
When dreams are dead.

Only heat, holds me...

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