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I am but air
in this hall of-
unreason

And I am square with myself;
I am alive, I do not breath
yet, I do and I must,

see-
the light
because I am the light and so are you,
you are there in all black dressed,
to the nines in the curtain rail twirling in the background.

I don't know what it means,
that's why they call it poetry.
a poem about the weather in Manchester

— The End —