Fires of WhispersA Poem by MarkSometimes the wicked, bad, naughty, evil thing I am simply works far harder at being lazy then at doing something.Tossing and turning, searching my bed for what is wrong. Why can't I sleep? My muse tingles my brain with incessant fires of whispers; images, words unwritten. Without thought, without word I know what is wrong. Yet I toss, and I turn; pretending to search.
© 2012 MarkReviews
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5 Reviews Added on August 23, 2012 Last Updated on August 23, 2012 |

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