Monday, April 16, 2012

I N E B





What could death return
If passing weren't a drag
Besides unwanted burns

The brown that coats the bag
Conceals my favorite fear
Like an antiseptic gag

The truth and I are clear
I cannot shake my sight
Of truths I cling to dear

I've never won a fight
My wings are made of glass
I drown myself in spite

My wings are made of glass

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