Monday, February 15, 2010

The Stench of History (Pt. 1)

it hits one sun, goes on and she falls through the mountainous, the gray, the dirt.

we're all nailed on the same cross, hung from the same tree, clinging to the same iscariot, that's how true breath is made into true cries of terror and adoration.

my back is on fire and the soil is eating my feet.

slowly eating my feet.

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