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Sunday, April 9, 2006


   If I pause to think,
today I might remember an old friend...


We met in the dark, empty place
where dreams go to die.
You know the one,
stale smells and old ashes:
Something burned there, long ago,
but the flame's long since gone out.

We departed in the bright and shiny new,
plastic wrapped and smelling tightly sealed,
inhumane in its sanitary nature.

To us, then:
the dearly departed.
The journeys we've undertaken
since we left ourselves behind,
You could write a book.
I could write one about you.
Maybe I have, and I just don't want to let on...

But if I stop to think,
I still smell the old ashes beneath the plastic wrap,
I still hear the creak of wood,
when metal ought to ring clean.
The old, dead dreams still feel more comfortable
than this breathless afterlife
tight-wound and tuned and polished
utterly...



Just an Intermission: Now I'll go back to the game...

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