Sunday, September 18, 2011

No Time At All.

Depending upon the moon
and the way it shall land
is a score or more of lamenting
then needed for a dead scorpion.
A block of cement clung to feet
the mass of people do not move
even though danger is climaxing.
In an instant, like that kind of rice is cooked,
is enough to flee the following scene.
The monster strikes
it's incandescent fire dances as it
burns all the lovely, little people.

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