|It must be some kind of sight.
The mirror does not see.
Hung above the cradles pen.
I'm blaming me I'm we.
|That's my dreams associated with it.
So I can paint the other laughs.
Kindly leave your ten-foot shoes.
Where I can paint their paths.
The poem that wins your vote migrates up a Ladder in rank one step.
The poem that looses your vote migrates down a Ladder in rank one step.
Go see the real time Ladder results, (but please
contribute six or seven votes first).
home = www.epicdewfall.ca