Patchwork Girl
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Sand as glass beneath my feet
My personal road to the Emerald City:
It twinkles in the distance,
never nearer
full of empty promises long forgotten.
Liquid sol bakes my head, scorching
my dreams.
Somehow they survive, carmelized,
overcooked creme brulee.
So I shuffle and shimmy and jitter
my way never closer,
drunk on moonlight and dew.
-HLM-
4-27-00
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© Cerese, 2001-01-07
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