Dried up. Blew away.
Crack and split.
Dust in a solid form.
Windstorm and fire swirl.
Take and give and take again.
Blue tubes of melody.
Fragrance of thought.
Two forces compete for the same space.
Dried up. Left to wait.
Bread into stones.
Dust into bones.
No one is home.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Dust
Labels:
atlanta,
blackcattips,
bread,
dry,
Dust,
fragrance,
kyle brooks,
melody of the soul,
words
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