Tuesday, March 6, 2012

sonnet seventy seven

inexhaustible, inexorable
tireless, relentless
juxtapositions, without the
curiosity to conclude

before we arrive to this
black-marked day
hunted until it becomes
red like a curse, bright

like being blinded, until
this hand shakes as my
thought struggles to put

your infiniteness within
five minutes of these words
you breathe life to.

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