munkinhead
10-02-2010, 11:06 AM
I mix with the hyenas
at the edge.
Holding myself to the fringe
I smell the cookfire.
My nostrils flare,
but I make no move.
Unwelcome, I sniff the poetry
from where the dark begins.
at the edge.
Holding myself to the fringe
I smell the cookfire.
My nostrils flare,
but I make no move.
Unwelcome, I sniff the poetry
from where the dark begins.