Thursday, December 18, 2008

Questions

It's an innocent thing
A few words hauled aloft
By a question mark
Hanging there, quite unaware
Of the mounting cost
That anchors the answer in silence

Nothing more than a question
Nothing less than his soul
He would shed the words like a tear
Or rip himself in two
To sustain the illusion of silence

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After a busy day when confronting admin

 We must all come  Find ourselves And we will all be found Regardless  As the sun finds the morning As breath finds the lungs As I am found ...