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There is poetry in the morning

Startled in the middle of night I think: Is a horde of Taliban lay down their arms? Is the rock that came off the tracks and through my neighborhood "The troop of wild horses has been released from the film and worth celebrating being alive? A giant is snoring? A group of Chinese geologists crossed the land and are coming right here? Is it a worker with a jackhammer working at this hour? Is by breaking down the wall? -. It's three in the morning.

Not so.

washing is the "automatic" my neighbor.

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That night I saw her pass me by without her seeing me, I sensed doom. I have called and tell her, but who was I to say anything. A great chill came over me. She did not ever knew, but I got ice, while my eyes were wet his emaciated shadow lost in the crowd. It was now time to return, but she did not return, not going anywhere, wandering through a city that used to spit their venom. She could not return, had no where to go, life had hit a kick in the stomach and bent like the letter U groping, without seeing, without suspecting how close to the edge was.

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Borders Cream against the glass my people

Yesterday I asked if I was to write in bars. And no, in the bars I hang around I see, I become scattered and tibia.

I hit a window as "little boy who looked outside, as those things I would never" , but from the inside and go after any of this earth angel .

After any tag I want to take.