Wednesday, April 30, 2008


She wears a crown of scorn,
Unfuried Hell.
Shadows of rabid dogs follow her
nipping at her heels.
Foaming every opportunity to remind
her who she was.
Trails of ember turn to ash.
She’s stronger now.
In morning
I walk beside her
trying to keep up.
But, I know we will never speak the same language.

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