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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=387647" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Field Of Death</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=387647" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">we make love<br>in a small room<br>underneath a tin roof...<br>your body praying for rain.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=387647" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">or perhaps it's just delusion, <br>or memory twisted by passion, <br>or what an old man settles for<br>in the echo of his life! </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=387647" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">kissing's like undressing, <br>slowly turns the spit, <br>not conscious of mirrors<br>or the need to hurry....</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=387647" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">soft words almost forgotten<br>fall like stones in a bottomless well...<br>and the only cry of passion<br>is the hawk circling<br>the field of death!</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Eric+Cockrell">Eric Cockrell</a></strong></div>

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