Wednesday, 26 March 2008

The Girl

Grey feathers of fallen thoughts rest upon the floor; the sun watches them becoming old…

Passing people uncaring walk. She, the one with the bright eyes brings one to her breast; the

feather kept – searching the sky hanging. But winds are uncaring… the feather blows, becoming

as lost as the bird that shed it…


But always the girl – that is where home lies.

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