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Since Our Gift Began to Flow


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Since our gift began to flow we’ve seen it as our approval. Where clear silvery liquid coats our expressions we in turn wash them away with abuse.

Slippery streams of blue enfold the arid sphere but drought bathes us in a burnt and brittle wrath, a rage of bone-dry judgments as we coat limbs without moisture, gray tongues, without love.

Crimson and ready, the shade of life throbs and a haze of creatures mine for blue water and the children can be seen in the dusk splashing laughter on the living’s edge.

The winter returned like damaged goods. Odd that we think we own her like a tattered pimp owns a whore, a queen owns her yellow throne, we’ll readily wash it all away with our use.


© 2010 by mark prime



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