Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Untitled

by Eric Harris

He was an expatriate
and loved among his rivals

He found himself
in a morgue
with spiteful words
for a shortwave radio

There were uncharted places
encircling him like wildfire
he brushed away dead skin

his broken watch was swimming
hands towards living reminders
landlocked priests of predation


*http://theblissofloneliness.blogspot.com/

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