Saturday, August 21, 2010

trampled to death by love

as vexation begets to spin the windmill. i curse at the wind. the wind having no part in this blew ever so gently. the wind doesn't share my rage and despair. the wind don't care. the wind has a degree of blithe to envy. cool, calm and collected.

but this vexation veiled has nothing to do upon the quandary that i am in. in solace setting out this accursed disposition. laid out in a clatter of hushes. to no avail this event transpires.

to beg and to plead. but none have come to fruit. for no tree on this earth bears any fruition for this beggar of a man. and this beggar squandered every notion of having anything to live for


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