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Jan 2015
Collapsed beautiful,
undefined and sharpened,
collated in the fatality of eyes;
I am slipping underneath
your eyelids, dust
trapped in kaleidoscope dreams,
Our words match, do we? Do we?
My joints mix between the blue and greys
of your optic landscape,
strengthened enough to resurrect
sunken ships. Submerge thought.
Fallen perfection, put the maps away.
Escape. Blink me out.
Dean Eastmond
Written by
Dean Eastmond  Weymouth
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