WHEN the flies hang their <br />hats, this love is dead. <br />WHEN a stitch is torned <br />out, this love is dead. <br />WHEN we blind fold our <br />words, this love is dead. <br />WHEN you become a stranger, <br />this love is dead.<br /><br />DAVID GERARDINO<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/glass-bombs-oe/
