take my hand and climb with me…

one hundred and eighty degrees: ‘dark and empty skies…’

Death Is Not The End ~ Bob Dylan

one hundred and eighty

Crossing, the abyss. Having stretched, pole to pole. An arc. Transcribed in thin, silver thread. He bisects, the void. To walk, the tripwire. In faith. Surrendered to, his fate. To die. A barbed, crown. Upon, his head.


And all that you’ve held sacred…

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This entry was posted on March 29, 2013 by in Autumn and tagged , , , , , , .


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