Searing irons thrust upwards through the raging inferno. In
a self-induced medieval torture of rising bile, sharp, acrid explosions in
poppy red burn raw tracts through my chest. In a bitter malady of regret I
recall why I stopped drinking red wine.
Saturday, 21 January 2012
Small Stone - Jan 20th
Bright sun follows rain, reveals bare branch, crystal
draped.
A wealth of shimmering diamonds hung on a slender
brown throat.
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