Monday, January 29, 2007
My inability to get hurt
Like dead flesh
It doesn’t hurt like a fresh rose
When stomped
Dead flesh sees future
Of being hung
After cut for steaks..
It doesn’t complain or
Can it complain after being dead?
Feathers ceded by birds in flight
Are like me.
They don’t get hurt
For they are not butterflies squashed by
Children in play..
Like dead flesh
It doesn’t hurt like a fresh rose
When stomped
Dead flesh sees future
Of being hung
After cut for steaks..
It doesn’t complain or
Can it complain after being dead?
Feathers ceded by birds in flight
Are like me.
They don’t get hurt
For they are not butterflies squashed by
Children in play..
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