Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Fray

The thistles are growing unevenly long
And the thoughts are screaming 1,000 strong
The branches are bowing too low to endure
And the rivers are boiling, burning impure
The blades of grass are cutting through the soil
And the sky runs blue, bleeding true and loyal
The thunder resounds on this clear summer day
Surprising the mountains beginning to fray
The thistles are growning unevenly long
And the blue bird is choking on its sad little song

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