HIS words were rusty, <br />his life standing behind <br />old, there was artficial <br />chatter coming from out <br />side, and a dancing light <br />my room. <br /> <br />HIS hands break these locks, <br />his legs push and push, until <br />they find forward, <br />his eyes open, then close, then <br />settle in this bipoler storm.<br /><br />DAVID GERARDINO<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/artficial-chatter/
