Saturday, November 8, 2014

Not a poem

Sudden spurts of creativity that come back to haunt you every other day. 
The afternoons are most vulnerable when the world seems to fall into a limbo. 
The sordid tales of those behind the walls slowly ferment. 
The smell can be caught from a distance. 
When a quick waft of breeze carries it along. 
Sometimes they wreak havoc with her hair - caught in their nettled mess. 
Something stirs. 
She lifts up her head. 
The sun Looks unfamiliar and brazen. 
She had always loved the moon

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