Clay and Flowers
the parkinsons disease sat next me.the flower,oh so still houred,do we kill?crazy
flower,it always ask the time of when we kill.its not up to me,its a sharper
image.damage done,i be gone,left alone to moan.a phone and a book left by a
crook.someone's calling,come look.
this is my tribute to randall edson
Copyright © Chris Bowen | Year Posted 2008
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