Wednesday, February 16, 2011



You can hear the whisper
Of spinning fans
Of leaves rustle

Sun is high up in the air
Baking the ground
A street-sized heater

Sweat trickles down your back
And seeps into
Your old white singlet

As you fan yourself in vain
Resisting temptations
Of the daydream slumber

Light turns to dark and dark turns to light
As the wind chime trinkles
Trails of handwriting ceases

As you slowly succumbs to
An unawakening spring slumber

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