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Updated on January 10, 2010


Sometimes just

around dusk,
I am able to

read my future
in the dim

reflections of

an ancient mirror,
near a small

tinted window.

The hollows

of my eyes
become cavernous
and the sharpness
of my cheekbones
protrude like

Mt. Rushmore,
as my Adams Apple
falls prey to Eve

Then if

I grimace
with teeth

clenched tight,
at my sudden

wasting away
in the waning light,
I can almost

see the skull
I will become

waiting patiently

beneath paper

thin skin.

Only my

nose remains
not yet

sunken into
a nostril-damus

of some distant

tomorrow's fate.

It's then

that I flick

a switch,
and resume

my place

the living.

      ? /

( o o )~~~MFB III

  \ ^ /



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