Memory
Some
kind,
of strange day;
matters
are scattered,
every which way.
I
can't,
speak for the,
wind that,
blows through here;
with its,
savage roar, and
hungry jaws.
scours
as,
it glides, takes
away
what it hides...
....impudent breeze.
Last edited by DanaC; 12-06-2006 at 07:45 PM.
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