Wednesday, July 02, 2008

The strange sounds of tribal drums, mingle with tires scraping gravel, travel through the open window, flow through half-open ears, and land somewhere on his fluttering eyelids.

Her image becomes a part of the beat, a part of some far off dream.

And he hopes that dreams become more than internalized vanities, heavy pendants worn around fragile necks.

And he hopes that open eyes do not mark endings.

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