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| Hey amie, I bought a pair of Sevens and thought of you.
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| Empty appartment. Kenny Chesney. Food cooking. Walt Whitman. Heaven.
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| I now own a book of poems.
Peaked
The tempered origin,
Youth,
Hangs its ornaments in the zephyr.
Mourning its usual presentable self,
Intrigue yawns, an eerie knotted smile on her face.
In perfect zen, with a clap to announce it,
Filthy art steps out from the unseen.
Quick as it came, the lawless vixen of merriment
Retreats from daylight,
Her lexicon reduced from the infinite.
The quintessence of these nuptials
Summed up by a single wet kiss.
Oh Angst. ~anonymous
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