Tuesday, March 09, 2004

3:20 AM Poem

3:20 A.M.
The frigid valley appeared empty from
High up on the sweet hillside, while the
Drunkards urinated on a petrified tree.

I wondered where the soft
Voice spoke last and when I would hear the
Enchanting whispers, and
Heavy breathing underneath the
Northern Lights.

A small cup filled with a
Cheap merlot was knocked over by the
Prevailing winds and nothing
Spilled out.

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