|Ghosts are Dead and Life is imperfect (standard:poetry, 89 words)|
|Author: briley wellings||Added: Nov 25 2003||Views/Reads: 1487/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A blank page says nothing, and although beautiful in it's perfection, it is imperfect in it's blinding congruence.|
Frantic facinations flood a finger's stride. Frantic, since words not tied to parchment float wildly with low tides and driftwood. Facinating, because once tied, Words can burn skulls and scald tongues. My pale page pushes me, puzzles me. Craving congruent perfection, Turning it's corpse white face from invading pen points. But once punctured by reality, Perfection's pale flesh lay freckled By blemishing light and words forged in truth. Fantasy falls flat Afront this finger's stride. This ink's black path Brings boys before themselves, And before themselves they are men. Tweet
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