Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

December 15, 2007


The sky smoked peaches,
a dirty lake, discarded rags.
The weather windless and
the air, still with ash. Places
where your nights have been
spent from a great distance,
sewn close by the needlepoint
of neon lights, of lost insights.

Posted by Delire at December 15, 2007 12:38 PM
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