Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Dry Spell

Once, now so long;
when you, in many

of 'em sepia frames,
just answered to the
silent wail. That psychic
bond, strengthened
by a platonic chord of
blood and cells.

The dream, nourished by

nitrates from a son and
phosphates from a mother.
Creating a fertile plain
to sow and reap, the reward
- a peaceful night,
after fighting demons
on a prison island.

Now, the eternally long days,
when even tantrums,
bush-fires and tears
fail to awaken your breasts,
to the needs of the
crying orphan.
The well is deep but dry,
drought's hit the promise land.

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