Wednesday, March 3, 2010
The Time Machine
There is not much to say about hell anymore.
It grows like honeysuckle.
It chokes into the smooth myrrh of indifference
with sweet cloying smell.
Does it tickle?
"Just how many nuclear wars did they have?"
Under the plum blossoms
strange rose gloves of the same hand
[copyright EAC 2010]