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26 October 2010 @ 07:29 pm
and yet there is always optimism  

A crisp lisp sleeks between fallen leaves.
Arrayed in a muted orange lamppost glare,
Parked vehicles appear tense,
Braked upon every thought written in the dark my hand inflicts;
A pen scratching,
In search of a chance combination of squiggles.
A wonder if fears,
Once confronted with the forever of parchment,
Will dissipate. What sense,
Then, of the written word;
Perhaps they shall be revisited.

Upon doing so,
What name shall be assigned to this queer feeling,
Burrowing steadily in one's chest,
Despite the thump of harsh beats
And what deeds these eyes have seen?