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Butter
between
Burnt Bread.
As my Sundays
Begin to unfold
Coffee, poetry
And away I go
Just like tomorrow
And the days before
Got to get myself
Into that zone

Moments between
The struggles of life
Balancing friends
Family and wifes
Work and fun go
Hand in hand
I am but
A Poetry Man
Traveler Tim
Some of us thrive
On poetry!
Demand supply,
Absent present.
Tense.
To suffer is to exist.
The surprise of a surplus,
In nature.
Semi-automatic eyelids flicker,
Backdrops glare through thick black lines.
Fast forward tracks on silver halide,
Detail removed, spoiled by light.
A scene defected as clarity hides.

Rib-cage rattle engine backfire;
A marble rotates on the edge of a knife.
Three-hundred bodies drift by aligned:
All voices unify into a singular baritone
Outfits blur like the traffic at night.

Cloud cover grows, the audience subsides
Calmness prevails, relaxing your mind
Shoulders sink to back to a perch
A low ISO repairs the flooding of light
Each silhouette regains its detail

As passers by regain their autonomy
A low ISO repairs the flooding of light
Each silhouette regaining its detail
Sweat stops pouring from over your brow
Conjoined voices become conversations

Clouds cover cracks as the day drifts by
A marble taps the brickwork below
As vertical beams shoot from the sky
Get back to your feet, pray to the night.
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