(Poem #401 on new numbering scheme)
Impossible delusions flutter down like moths disturbed in sunbeams raking air and mornings then congeal to blobs of hope that can't be tasted absent time's consent.
(Poem #401 on new numbering scheme)
Impossible delusions flutter down like moths disturbed in sunbeams raking air and mornings then congeal to blobs of hope that can't be tasted absent time's consent.