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Friday, July 29, 2011

Poem 68

So innocent is the blindness

Of chaos, its syllables

A slow music floating to a grave

Matter disintegrating

Like the taste of expensive time.

Observe. Supernatural explosions.

Dying is a dull progress

An impatient process

Of recovering

Moons as yet unborn.

Supernatural implosions.  Observe.

Jerry W. Ward, Jr.

July 28, 2011

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