Thursday, January 24, 2008

Prose Poem

Dynamite allowed itself to be misused by the harp, which wanted to become an angel. The explosion sounded much sweeter than its simple strumming. The angel wings would fit over its body very nicely. Dynamite, on the other hand, knew it was on the side of the devils and loved this fact. So many other instruments had passed on to its fiendish, despicable known, all for the benefit of their self-image and the truth that we're always more loved when we're gone.

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