That cough suppressant never seems sufficient. I still hack. The voice, once
honeyed, now finds a companion in dry air. I fancy singing alongside complex
dance. Such scansion leaves me little heart to go on, as a part of me not
water is still breath.
Do you know a synonym for shallow that would peek at depth?
The silence I retort is blinding and resides near deafness. Triumvirate
conditioning requires a #2 pencil, not HB.
Once I saw a silhouette and I decided not to be the filler narcissist. What
happened to quotation marks around that statement?
Bloodlines lead the mind, while blond indifference needs low lights.
Semaphore, turned a little to the left again.
The incinerator used to work, and now it's lodged in the Smithsonian.
What does celebration mean?
Amid all this consternation and huggable opportunity, one reality remains:
I need to have my flute examined.
sheila e. murphy
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