Thursday, December 9, 2010

Impulse Outlet No.12

Waves, tresses, curls falling
to the floor,
the wrong colour,
on the inside gold

On the outside tarnished
with years of squaller,
hiding from what's under,
stained in brown

My fingers, held captive,
in their scissored extensions,
watch what's gold underneath
being tossed to the floor

As my dismembered fragments
drift past the sink-ledge,
I know it is true:
I am gold no more.

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