Thursday, March 24, 2011


I am quite the ordinary person. Ordinary being, by definition, nothing spectacular. I am, as one would say, unremarkable.
I am a shadow with no gender and no form. I am a voice that makes no sound.
I am vertigo.
I am a stone that bleeds when cut, a priceless gem of useless dust.
I am Mother Teresa's gnarled fingers.
I am the Pope's abandoned robes.
I am the raging half-life of a teenage girl.
I am the smothering pillow in a would-be widow's hands.
I am, by virtue of my skin,
made from the wind.
I am an iced ivory face
in an Iron Maiden's embrace.
I am a ghost that knew no life.
I am life that knows no ghost.
I am a mirror at my best,
and a reflection at my worst.

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