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| Schizoid Insominac | Eh... whatever. The smoke that trails off of the match That lit your last cigarette The scent of that final strike that lingers on my fingers As I wipe the dripping tears from the tip of my nose The faint traces of your perfume Brings back thoughts of our first night Sand, love, soft blankets, and the bed of my truck And the wind that wafts your memory Across my cold and shallow mind And with no depth left I fade away, My last bit of being disappears Into the salty moon lit sky... Like the smoke and scent, of that burned out matchstick.
__________________ I win. |
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| | #2 (permalink) |
| Brandon 1st Blood, Part 2 | Digging it man, got some nice imagery there.
__________________ A dragon you say? I poke him in the eye with my stick of pokeing +2 Note: No trees were killed in the sending of this message, but a large number of electrons were terribly inconvenienced. |
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