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"Poetry is the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash." Leonard Cohen

Thursday, November 27, 2014


The gibbous moon fled the sky flinging clouds farther
than would be thought possible on most nights
But this moon, this deadly cream-coloured orb, had
risen in the south - no moon had ever risen there
No wonder it hurried to depart the heavens before
too many realized its mistaken presence

North by northeast, that would be one way to get
there, she thought, staring at her compass
But only if she hurried and took the wind into account
and if it didn't change direction
She knew the wind was as fickle as sunshine and could
change on a whim
But she also knew her whole reason for living was to
get there, no matter what it took
Before anything else happened...

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