3 Dogs, 1 Gun, 2 Bullets
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Poem by: Kenny Moore
I've lost the will to speak, and by my will I will not hesitate to hesitate to breath. For the breath of the breeze breathes harshly on my crooked yet stable spine, bound simply by the outstanding fact that in order to stand out, I must simply bind my breath to the crooked breeze no matter how simple my speech sounds. And in order to stabalize traces of doubt, you must undoubtedly deny and trances brought upon by traced on lines, denying any sense of stability in this blowing, unstable, crooked breeze.
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