Phone Booth

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Phone Booth

Dry confusion sparks the mind. All present are pushed into a shade of pallor not rivaled by any known cause.

Loose thoughts drift toward the mirrored phone booth, until all the numbers therein are eliminated.

Harvest the ripe thoughts that grow in your garden of inhospitallity, and free your slave, allow him your name. To carry on in a new manner without any plan, can only lead back to the booth.

Outside the killer awaits for his chance to come forth and present his gift to humanity.

Any moment now it will all far apart...but do not heed my warning, for I am not of your kind.

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To have great poets there must be great audiences too.

Walt Whitman, American Poet (1819-1892)

zoel’s Poems (15)

Title Comments
Title Comments
The Gift 0
Suburban Suicide 0
Allegory 0
Cherish 2
Forever 1
Scars of Desires 2
Phone Booth 0
A Dream 2
Love Glow 0
My Special Mermaid 0
Languid Anguish 0
Justice 0
I Smile 0
The Motel 0
Rover 0