November one: The air is tightening in the wind, woven of the rainbow, fluid, purposeful.
I remember...
November one twenty-eleven: woke up with a start, familiar fangs whispering my name, Love ready to emerge in her gown of flowers, her slippers of Love and her crown of thorns, an imperfect perfection.
I remember...
III: But how can this be, a gown of flowers and a crown of thorns? Could it be that imperfection is the most overlooked perfection?
III II: Might we merely be cogs in the machinations of man, assembly lines to the dumping ground of noise; cart loads of loveless human flesh stomping by without so much as a hug, men and women, zombies trudging another along a mirrored fate?
I remember...
November one.
© 2011 by mark prime
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