Sunday, 5 October 2008

Poem



i was 19 and you were 38, we went down the house that made of stick. we played games, but eskimo kisses are just too lame. tree song’s rustling when we chop the wood, daily lumberjack but we talk about brood. breeze of bliss, tears for fear. you put the thorn on my chin, it bleeds but i love you since.

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