Welcome to Louis Milo Poetry
A word is beautiful; a poem, divine.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Numb
White out.
Little ice bastards
Flew with the air, an attack
On all who don’t concede.
Surrender to it and one will be spared
From their blades, little edges.
They cut and stung me until
I was drunk with pain.
Then, numb.
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