03 Aug, 2011 01:03 AM
Split. Like rubber bands
By fickle fait torn,
The world twice over 
Homing pigeons fly
To fill their shadow

But wings we do lack,
Can?t always afford
No matter the will
No matter the ache
They can not be grown

Ache and will worth nil
If they buy not one
Mere mend for anguish,
Instead we reserve 
For freeze dried roses
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