One can only hope its her, knocking
When the side panel of the right ear
plunges deeply the canal of the angel
of good tears, I take back to writing
for the good of the soul, whats left
of tempest broken body hollowed core
and a writ of good words set on the pane
window trickles in some more madness
to the sane, and I feel I have refrained
the truth of seizures too, convulscions
are like lightning which tell me it's time
Renew. Faith and courage, mixed sweat
tears and blurred wit, at least you laugh
whilst I cry, a counter peice in time.
Christopher Baird 2011 ©
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