L . i . e . s
Monday, 9 January 2012
Gone
The last of that generation has gone to sleep, leaving, in the wake of its passing, the younger generations.
Smoke
inhaled. So
aromatic.
It floats and
wafts
before
dying
again.
Hell notes
lie singed,
burnt.
And words
lie
motionless,
and wholely
unsaid.
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