Monday, November 3, 2008

The Riddle

He sat there.
A pinch of cold stroke him.
thinking, writing, laughing
The space is diminutive,
The clean fragrance within an atmosphere.
Tiles surrounded him.
He sweats as he pushes himself,
nothing, but an odor,
the cleanliness fades.
Boulders of fists,
a splashhe smiles in relief.
Not yet, It's not over.
The smell is striking.
Blood around his body is seen in the color of his face,
until it leaves his naked body.