Saturday, December 20, 2014

2.1327 : 12/20/08 : Flog

I churn through days and pages
like a car on winter roads
point and hope that something sticks
pray that nothing else explodes
if there’s no material to speak of
that hasn’t been done to death
put it on the threshing floor
flog it until its last breath
ride that hobby horse like thunder
smack that paddle ball like hate
It seems like reinventing the wheel
is my sad and lowly fate

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