Monday, April 2, 2012

Searing Sunrise

The salty boomerangs in the nerve-endings tingle
like a blade does,
just before slicing through thin veins.

The growl starts, silently first, moving into a roar
that drowns the peaks of torment
sparking up the oceans of pure throb.

'Die, man, die when you still can', an honest broken slivered voice speaks.
Rain, descending from the grey masses of waylaid dreams, glistens in assonance.
Drops fall off, touch the sinews of another sunrise of pain
and evaporate.

Another dawn arrives on red-hot tongs.

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