Read some poetry -
ancient if you must, but red is the blood that pierces this trial of mine. The elevator glides and welcomes our needle, a walk in and out, for hope, a gesture, a blank stare, and then a cure. But travel in millions of microbes, cells giving life or not. Here red gave, the piano is to be turned on and off. Echoes and plants - towering the patio- the foyer of people - strangers to death. Or their own hearts on fire. I took it and had it cropped. Then dared it to scare across a plate - stored it in millions of tokens. It's ready for duplication. A moment then a rage to be seated in order of importance. We all know, but are unknown in our chairs. How can people work this, silent vitals, quietly timing themselves. © 2012 Larry Ingram
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Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture. Categories
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December 2018
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