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Dear Alicia,
An infant lays carefully placed
on the lip between normalcy and society.
He subtly coughs a hair from his palm
and watches it steer itself into fantasy.
He was born in time to learn
the history of one century,
but he had no place there;
his thoughts surpassing one set of ideals,
and wearying on to the next.
No one holds him back,
though they may try
through tears and flame;
piano playing is not the answer.
April 16 2006, 22:08:30 UTC 6 years ago