Thursday, December 04, 2008

The beginning of a poem I didn't finish

I have become accustomed to decay.
Signature slumps, posters tear,
Sole wears thin, sings out for repair.
Graffiti appears where volunteers once sweat,
Mocking Matissean leaves and flourishes.
Age shoulders in on once golden feats,
Scrubbing mystery, sowing fear.

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