January 2010
4 tags
Untitled
The sands of time are beginning to run dry the sand has pierced my eye and as I cry the river that streams down my cheek grows and flows passed my nose and towards my mouth. Where the tears still remain and never drain but transform into the speech that refuses to conform to the shape provided by a cookie cutter. And so these metaphoric butterflies are allowed to fly away from their birth...
1 tag
